Inquisitor Carrow and the Bureaucracy of Failure
by littlewhitecat
Summary: Now he has been officialy declared an adult Inquisitor Carrow can start to implement his plans, turning Ancient Terra in to the God-Emperor fearing world he knows it should be, and what better place to start than with the Wizarding World? Be afraid, be very afraid...
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

Author's Note

This is a sequel to **Inquisitor Carrow and the God-Emperorless Heathens **which I highly recommend reading before this otherwise it will be difficult to figure out what is going on. Happy reading my lovely readers!

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Inquisitor Carrow and the Bureaucracy of Failure

Chapter 1

Minister Fudge sat in the middle of the small magically propelled boat, humming to himself happily, and enjoying the brisk North Sea air. This boat was the only way to get to and fro to the Wizarding prison Azkaban, and though he normally put off his annual inspection as much as possible, this year he'd been extremely eager to go.

And the reason why he was so excited to go to such a joyless, miserable, dementor infested rock in the middle of the North Sea? Because it was absolutely guaranteed that one Allesandor Darius Carrow was not there; it was enough to make Minister Fudge want to skip with happiness.

As soon as the suspected half-giant had taken up his family seat on the Wizengamot, the up-start had started throwing his considerable weight around, asking awkward questions about his god-father's trial, or rather lack of one, not to mention a whole list of other people who'd been locked up on the grim and depressing rock, and conveniently forgotten about.

There had been Jeddadiah Jinks, that had paid for the rather nice conservatory; and old Reggie Pingle, Lucius Malfoy had been feeling particularly vindictive that day, but he had been able to get his wife that diamond necklace she'd been nagging him about for months; and of course there had been the sad case of Lucreatia Mipps, but there had been a bright side, as he'd been able to buy the beautiful holiday home in the south of France. And so many others that didn't come to mind right at this moment, but he had suitably benefited from dear Lucius's generosity.

Wanting to teach the big man a lesson, Fudge had employed some of his less savoury contacts to show Carrow what happened to people who got too nosy. The thugs had come back three days later, demanding danger money while failing to have completed what should have been a simple task. The boss of the gang had had the cheek to stand in front of him, one eye swollen shut, and several teeth missing, while his right-hand man had stood, staring wildly in to space, trembling uncontrollably. The nasty little thug had tried to blackmail him when he'd refused, and the whole meeting had got rather unpleasant until the Aurors arrived.

Fudge never thought he would, but he desperately missed Lucius Malfoy. The man was so talented at making problems go away.

Why couldn't Carrow sit back, learn the ropes, and watch how things worked in the British Wizarding World, instead of coming in all high and mighty?

On the horizon a smudge of grey appeared becoming larger and more defined as the battered little boat drew ever closer. The grim rocky cliffs, over which loomed the ominous presence of Azkaban prison itself. Once a castle, it had many centuries ago been converted in to a prison by the British Ministry of Magic. Its bleak prospects and grim and severe architecture did little for the mental well-being of its residents. This coupled with the debilitating effects of the dementor guards, resulted in very few prisoners retaining their sanity beyond a year's residence.

As the little boat drew closer the small brick building in which the over-seeing aurors had their offices became visible through the mist. Nobody with any sense spent any longer inside the prison proper than they had to. In fact, much of the day to day running of the prison, such as feeding the inmates, was done magically, thereby saving the resident aurors' sanities from being taxed more than was absolutely necessary.

The reception party on the jetty watched in astonishment as a cheerful Minster bounced on to dry land, obviously pleased to be there, his bodyguards alighting at a more sedate pace.

"Well," Fudge declared gleefully, rubbing his hands together, "shall we crack on with the inspection then?"

The head warden nodded his head slowly and carefully, obviously disturbed by the man's mood. He and his deputy exchanged looks behind the Minister's back as they walked in to Azkaban proper. It was clear that you didn't need to stay in Azkaban to be crazy, but it helped.

OOOOOO

Timothy Faulks trudged through the stony dry river valley, sweltering inside the outlandish outfit he was currently wearing. He was, at this moment, playing Nundu bait for his new employer, and had decided to kit himself up as best as he could. A fruitful trip to a military surplus store had provided him with both a gas mask and an NBC suit with its charcoal infused padding. Being a Ravenclaw, he had the background in runes and arithmancy to further enhance the protective qualities of these items of dubious aesthetic qualities. Carrow on seeing his efforts had had trouble hiding a smile. Wad the big man amused or pleased with his efforts? Faulks was still having problems reading the big man, even after three weeks of prolonged and hair raising contact with the lunatic.

Even now, as he trudged through the barren landscape of rocky outcrops, screes of gravel and drifts of sands, sweating profusely, Faulks was being trailed by Carrow. Faulks gazed around the valley. How could somebody so large, clad in such bulky flamboyant amour disappear so completely in this barren dun coloured landscape? The man was such a massive puzzle full of strange contradictions, and there was nothing a Ravenclaw liked more than a good conundrum; Faulks was determined to get to the bottom of this one.

Something to his left caught his gaze, a pile of fresh spoor lay on the stony ground still steaming slightly. The highly distinctive odour gave away its origins as that of a Nundu even through the strong scent of rubber from his gas mask. They must be close now. Steeling himself, Faulks continued onwards.

OOOOOO

The prison was its usual squalid self. Due to the dementor guards and the largely automated maintenance the prisoners enjoyed little in the way of amenities. Washing facilities were virtually non-existent, while calling the toilets basic was being kind. The scent of hundreds of unwashed bodies, human faeces and the cold sea air mingled in to a distinctive odour which clung to everything it came in to contact with. It would take several showers and some heavy duty cleaning charms for Minister Fudge to rid himself of the odour of Azkaban, but it was worth it just to be Carrow free for the day.

As the head warden led the Minister's party around it became rather obvious that most of the prisoners were not just insane, but were insensate to the world around them, hunching on their squalid little pallets and rocking back and forth. Fudge was sure he'd seen one particularly sickly looking fellow bashing his head repeatedly against the wall.

Entering into the High Security Wing, the domain of imprisoned death eaters, the prisoners were slightly more vocal and aware, screaming and shouting abuse at the passing dignitaries. All, except one. Sirius Black, traitor, betrayer of the Potter family, and mass murderer was watching the passing visitors in silence, dirty fingers wrapped around the bars of his cell, haunted grey eyes ever watchful. Fudge shuddered slightly at the shell of the once exuberant and jovial auror.

"Sir," came the man's cracked and whispering voice, "your paper, sir. Could I have your paper, sir?"

The man was so pitiful, that in a rare moment of compassion Fudge gladly handed over the morning's Daily Prophet. Maybe some news of the outside world would do the man some good.

OOOOOO

Faulks staggered slightly as he hauled himself over yet another slab of rock. Why hadn't he thought of cooling charms on this blasted suit? It was too late for that now, unfortunately. Cursing insane bosses and ridiculous jobs, Faulks carried on his way warily keeping an eye out for any signs of a Nundu, tracks, spoor, anything. Considering the creatures moved completely silently, he was expecting to become literal bait.

If he'd been told three weeks ago that he was going to be Nundu bait for his new, extremely large and dangerous boss, he'd have laughed at them and told them to stop smoking those mushrooms.

Frankly, he'd had difficulty just two days ago with the idea of a Nundu hunt. When he'd realised Carrow was totally serious, he'd made sure the man actually knew what a Nundu was. He'd pointed out its large size, its resistance to magic requiring a team of at least one hundred wizards to subdue such a creature, its ability to breathe a disease causing miasma and the fact the terrifying creature was capable of bringing down a fully grown bull elephant. He'd even dragged Carrow to London Zoo to give him an idea of the size of the average elephant. Carrow had gone very quiet when he'd seen the elephant, and Faulks thought for a wild moment he'd finally got through to the large man, until he saw the excited gleam in his eyes and his broad, feral grin. Timothy Faulks knew at that moment that he was utterly Doomed.

The sound of shifting stones caused him to jump and whirl on the spot, wand held raised ready in one sweaty hand. He desperately scanned the surrounding outcrops for the slightest movement, the slightest change. A gust of hotter, rancid air hit him from behind, followed by another, and then another. His spine prickling with cold, goose bumps coming up on his arms Faulks slowly turned on the spot careful not to make any sudden moves.

OOOOOO

Sirius Black eagerly flicked through his prize with shaking fingers. It had been years since he'd last heard any sort of contact like this with the outside world. He'd naturally turned to the sports section first, lapping up all the details of the current Quidditch leagues, the performance of players he'd never heard of, scandals involving trainers, who he vaguely thought had been starting their careers as players when the war had been going on. There were many, many names he didn't recognise. The broom reviews had him in ecstasies, eager to get his hands on one and try it out. It had all left him shaken and crying, this wonderful cheap paper and ink window on to the world beyond the grim walls of Azkaban.

He'd feverishly scoured the Births, Deaths, Marriages section looking for familiar names, half remembered people he'd know as a child, anything familiar really to reassure him that, yes, there really had been a time when he'd existed outside these four stone walls.

Even the smallest advert was a cause for excitement, dimly remembered brands of cleaning agents and household products. The whole-page advert for Zonko's joke shop had him reminiscing shamelessly about a distant time when he had been so young and carefree without a trouble in the world.

As he reverently turned a page he came across a large photo of strangely familiar faces. A glance at the accompanying article explained it. The Weasley family had won the Daily Prophet Galleon Draw. He remembered Molly and Arthur from Order of the Phoenix meetings. A wonderful couple, he couldn't think of any one more deserving of winning a large amount of gold. They'd obviously prospered after the war, despite the losses they'd incurred. He still remembered Gideon and Fabian, two thoroughly decent blokes who'd loved their little sister, and had teased her incessantly. Molly had been devastated by their deaths. Maybe her large brood was some sort of compensation, or maybe she'd just been determined to have a daughter. Sirius was impressed; the young lady must be the first Weasley daughter in nine generations. Their youngest son was the same age as little Harry.

The thought of his treasured godson drove him to the pits of despair. The thought of the little boy he'd last seen, all tousled black hair and big green eyes with that infectious cheeky grin made him howl his despair, tearing at his clothes and hair. Somebody else had watched his godson grow up and develop, had taught him to read and write, had watched him make his first friends, had hugged him when he was scared and read him bedtime stories. It should have been him, he should have been there.

When he became aware of his surroundings again he was lying curled on his side, fresh scratches on his face, the precious paper lying crumpled under him. He scrambled up panicking, desperately smoothing out the precious pages with shaking hands. He was relieved to see that despite his thrashing around the paper was only slightly smudged and torn.

Turning back to the photo of the Weasley family happily waving up at him while standing in the bright Egyptian sunshine he was struck with how happy they looked. Bill, the eldest child, who he'd met a few times, had grown up in to a handsome young man with rakish good lucks and a smile that probably drew the ladies in like bees to honey. Charlie wasn't in this picture but Percy was, with his head-boy badge proudly displayed. Sirius remembered the twins, they were already trouble as toddlers, obviously took after their deceased uncles. Right at the front were the daughter with her long hair falling over her shoulders, and Ronald, the youngest son. It was clear he took after his father, with his long coltish limbs and manic freckles. Perched on his shoulder was a rat, a common or garden rat. Sirius did a double take; the rodent in question was missing a front toe on its left paw. His hands shook in fury at the sight of the filthy little double crossing traitor Peter Pettigrew sitting as bold as brass on the shoulder of Ronald Weasley.

Peter Pettigrew was at Hogwarts, as the pet of a lad who was most likely in Gryffindor, considering his family, alongside Harry, his precious godson; where else would the boy be sorted considering his parents?

And the little rat was there in the dame dormitory as Harry, the only child of his best friend, waiting for something. To strike Harry down? To betray the boy again? Whatever the filthy little rat's intentions were, they did not bode well. Not at all. And here he was, suck in Azkaban in this little cell, six foot by six foot, within these four stone walls, unable to do anything about it. Shaking uncontrollably, he changed in to his dog form and howled his despair and anger, helplessness and rage, his cries mingling with those of the other prisoners.

OOOOOO

Faulks gulped down his fear; there crouching among the boulders, just twenty feet away was the most gigantic feline he'd ever seen, staring straight at him, head close to the ground slinking slowly forward with each delicate lift and careful placement of its colossal paws. Its harsh grey fur blended in perfectly with the surrounding stones, the heat haze and the cat's spots further blurring its outline. Faulks was in awe; the animal was utterly magnificent, and dangerous, and it was only twenty foot away. Fighting down rising panic he carefully jabbed his wand at the ground in front of the cat with a hissed "Bombarda maxima". A flash of white light and a woomph blew a spray of dust, sand and jagged stone shrapnel in to the Nundu's face, but Faulks was already sprinting as fast as he could for the safety of the nearest outcrop, scrambling up it as fast as he could, fear and adrenalin driving him on as the green cloud of the Nundu's miasma crept up and engulfed him.

A deep, reverberating bellow echoed around the valley as Carrow leapt from his concealment and charged the angry feline, his amour covered in a light coating of dust and his power sword crackling with blue energy. Dancing past the Nundu's attempts to crush him with its huge paws Carrow slashed across one of the animal's limbs cutting the front forelimb right to the bone. The Nundu's roars of pain echoed around the valley, joining Carrow's war cry.

The cloud of green the Nundu huffed towards Carrow hugged the ground, clinging to the stones, causing the little sparse and scrappy vegetation to wilt and shrivel in its noisome presence. Locked away in the self-contained environment of his power amour Carrow was oblivious to the Nundu's most fearsome weapon. Instead he charged forward, wielding his power sword, slashing through the other forelimb slicing through vital tendons, hobbling the giant feline. The Nundu staggered sideways, screaming and howling in pain, before lashing out again wildly; in desperation at the deadly irritant that was taking it apart piece by piece. Carrow easily dodged its snapping jaws, the gust of poisonous breath and the slashing claws, dodging in and cleaving the beast's belly open from side to side. The Nundu slumped fitfully on to its side, Carrow throwing himself clear, rolling and coming up in to a fighting stance, sword ready. The Nundu whined and rasped, desperately trying to stand, to move away from this deadly menace, its every struggle getting weaker and weaker, every breath a painful bubbling rasp. Carrow, seeing its chest wide open, darted in and drove his sword between its ribs right up to the hilt, piercing the Nundu's heart. With a heave, he wrenched the battle blade free, releasing a gush of the creature's blood, as its corpse began to cool beneath the Saharan sun.

OOOOOO

Sirius Black sat on his mean cot, his ragged blanket draped around his shoulders staring at the stone wall in front of him. He was pretty certain he was the only person who knew Pettigrew was alive, well, and in a position to attack Harry Potter, his precious godson, the little boy who ended the war. Somehow he needed to get out of here, either to get the news out that the little rat was indeed alive, or capture the filthy traitor himself. But he'd never received a trial, people had obviously assumed he was guilty, and tried to forget about him. Maybe he could tell Remus; but no, Remus would think he was the traitor. He must be so angry after they all distanced themselves from him because they thought he was the leak. It had seemed reasonable at the time what with all the trouble Greyback and his rabid pack were causing. But he hadn't been the traitor, Peter Pettigrew was, and what a surprise that was. And he, he himself was a traitor too. If he hadn't persuaded James to swop secret keepers at the last moment...it had seemed such a good idea at the time.

But no, he mustn't follow that train of thought. He must keep it together; he needed to stay calm, to stay focused. There were only two important facts; he was the only person who knew the traitor rat was alive, and secondly, but just as importantly, Harry was in danger.

He needed to get out. Desperate times called for desperate measures as the muggles would say. Staring at the door to his cell he thought of all the meagre resources at his disposal. He wasn't sure how the dementors would react if he tossed his blanket over one of them, or flung poo in their direction. Not well probably. He could turn in to his dog form and growl at them but they never took ...any...notice...that was it!

He would stay in his dog from, wait for the dementor guards to open the door, and sneak out. It would be tough to swim across the sea, but he was sure he could make it; he had nothing to lose after all. And then...and then what? Well he'd think of something, he always did.

OOOOOO

Faulks tried not to breathe too heavily, as he hauled himself higher on the steep valley trying to get himself as clear from the influence of the Nundu as he could. As he reached the top he was hit by a gust of slightly cooler air. Pulling off the stifling mask, he got his first unobstructed view of the dry valley and Carrow at work as he put down the giant cat. Frankly the poor animal didn't stand a chance against the man.

A rattle of pebbles behind caused him to jump, nerves jangling, whirling on the spot wand ready. One of the American volunteers stood behind him looking at the gruesome scene in the valley below, his mouth wide open, frozen to the spot.

Faulks pulled himself to his feet dusting off the clinging sand.

"We've dealt with the problem," he addressed the stuttering, pointing man who looked like he might be an American Auror. The man startled at the sound of Faulks's voice. "What?" he managed.

"The Nundu," Faulks carefully enunciated, "Mr Carrow has killed it. Do you want to explain to him that there's only one Nundu or shall I?"

The American Auror looked disbelievingly at him before giving the rapidly approaching figure of Carrow a long and wary stare, "I'll leave you to it," he smirked at Faulks before quickly apparating away.

"Coward," muttered Faulks to the empty air.

OOOOOO

The briefing for the Nundu hunt was in full flow. The team Leader, an experienced and seasoned senior hit-wizard, stood at the front of the crowd on a plinth outlining his plan of action to tackle this very dangerous threat that was menacing villages along the edge of the desert.

The threat from this creature was immense, and he honestly didn't expect them all to survive. The last Nundu hunt he'd been involved in some forty years previously had resulted in the loss of eighty-two lives. He was quite pleased with the quality of the team that he'd been able to assemble, though it was very irritating that the two British wizards had wandered off; very irresponsible of them with such a dangerous creature in the area. Frankly he wasn't expecting to see either of them alive again.

A disturbance at the back of the gathering started, and the crowd of aurors, hit-wizards and professional adventurers parted revealing the armoured monstrosity the British had sent. Beside him was the other member of the British team wearing the strangest outfit he'd ever seen; what was that rubber thing hanging around his neck? Behind them, on the edge of the crowd was the corpse of a huge male Nundu, intestines spilling out across the desert sands.

The over-armoured giant sauntered forward, light footed and virtually silent in his massive suit of overly ornamented armour, obviously very pleased with himself.

"I and my assistant have disposed of one of the beasts," the ridiculously large man announced. "If you would be so good as to direct us to the rest of the infestation?"

The team-leader gulped nervously at the challenging glare the green-eyed nut-case directed at him, his eyes watering from the nerve-jangling whine the man's armour seemed to produce. How did he explain there was only one Nundu?

OOOOOO

Chest heaving, the large and scrawny dog pulled its bedraggled form out of the cold waves and on to the pebbled beach. It rested for a moment before staggering to its feet and having a good shake, shedding cold sea-water in a huge spray, leaving its fur sticking up in all directions. For the first time in a decade Sirius Black was free from Azkaban and the oppressive influence of the dementors. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to feel happy. The sea of pent-up emotions threatened to overwhelm him in a lethal deluge he had little hope of surviving with his sanity intact.

He had to keep it together, he had to concentrate; two important things, the rat traitor, and Harry, little Harry his beloved godson. Unbidden despair and yearning rose in throat, threatening to undo him. He swallowed them back. He needed to keep going, to catch the traitor, for Harry's sake.

Trotting further inland he had a decision to make. Did he go looking for Harry first, or did he go to Hogwart's and wait for the arrival of the rat? He didn't know where Harry was living, but he did know both his godson and the rat would end up on September 1st. Decision made, he turned his nose north and started to lope along.

"Don't worry Harry! I'm coming for the traitor, I'll save you!" he panted to himself as he ran.

OOOOOO

The one-year anniversary of his disappearance from No.4 Privet Drive was, in Carrow's opinion, the perfect date to reconnect with his Dursley relatives. He was loath to miss the opportunity to cultivate useful contacts, particularly in the normal, mundane world. So here he was, striding up the path of No.4, with its neatly trimmed lawn and immaculately laid out flower beds, carrying a bag of token gifts for his estranged remaining family. It felt distinctly odd to be in this place he had so many memories of again; memories that he remembered vividly, but at the same time were distant and remote as if they belonged to someone else, and here he was standing in the middle of them

Shaking off the introspection, he carefully pushed the doorbell, trying not to accidently crush it like he had the Granger's. The distant chime quickly summoned the soft thunk, thunk of heeled shoes on carpet. The door cracked open revealing his aunt Petunia, tall and thin, with a long neck, horsey face and carefully coiffured hair. She had completed her visage of lower-middle class respectability with a sensible floral dress, pearls and shiny white court shoes. Her glare was suspicious as she took in the man she was sure wasn't in the least bit respectable.

"Good morning, Aunt Petunia." Carrow rumbled at the woman, his best friendly smile in place. "It's such a pleasure to see you again."

The woman's eyes went wide in shock her hand flying to her mouth as she realised exactly who her mysterious visitor was. Her breathing hitched oddly as she took in his appearance more closely; Carrow was mildly offended as he'd taken great pains to dress smartly. He had wanted to make a good impression on his remaining relatives after all. Petunia Dursley's eyes rolled back in their sockets, and she gracefully crumpled to the floor.

Carrow exchanged puzzled looks with the nosy neighbour who was peering over the fence and shrugged.

OOOOOO

Eyes blinking rapidly, groaning softly Petunia came round to confusion as to why she was horizontal, lying on her own settee. She remembered folding laundry, and then the door-bell went so she answered it...and there was a strange man...realisation poured over her sluggish thoughts like a bucket of ice-cold water. Her nephew had been at the door...except he was no longer a boy. Something...unnatural was going on.

"Are you quite well, Aunt Petunia?" an impossibly deep and gravelly voice rumbled from the other side of the room.

Startled, Petunia sat bolt upright staring at the man with his outrageous outfit, like a cross between a Nazi SS officer and a Gothic convention. What would the neighbours think? The shame! And he was so unnaturally large...and definitely a man so how could he be her horrible nephew...but he had the face of that arrogant bastard who'd stolen her sister away...Lily's eyes...but they were so cold and lacked the warmth and humanity that Lily's had always had, even after the worst of their arguments. They reminded her of a documentary she had once seen with tigers filmed in the wild, hunting. They had had the same gleam in their eyes as they locked on to their prey.

"GET OU..." she began.

"I have brought you a little something. I'm sure you were very worried about my sudden disappearance," the giant man-monster rumbled pressing a bouquet of flowers into her arms. "I came to reassure you I was alive and well, to...reacquaint myself with you." He sat back smiling that awful smile. "I've not seen you for so long."

Petunia looked down at the bouquet of beautiful peach roses just opening their blooms, fronds of frothy foliage, and sprigs of tiny white flowers she couldn't quite remember the name of.

"I hope you find them acceptable." the monster rumbled. Petunia gave him a sickly smile.

OOOOOO

Petunia nervously clattered around in the kitchen preparing tea and a plate of biscuits for her unwanted guest, slapping oversized fingers away from their exploration of the toaster and fending off questions about the function of the various kitchen appliances. She had no idea what a machine spirit was, or where in the microwave it lived; she only used the blasted thing. When the giant nuisance started opening cupboards and getting even more in the way, she had shooed him out.

As she finished bringing everything through to the lounge she distinctly heard the man padding around upstairs as he moved from room to room. Gritting her teeth she stormed up the stairs intending to give her unwanted guest a piece of her mind. The sooner Vernon arrived home from work the better.

There was silence and Petunia looked around the landing in confusion. She was sure she had heard him only a moment ago. Nothing appeared out of place, a quick peek through the open doors of the bedrooms revealed everything in order. Petunia did a double take; the door of _that room_ was ajar. Heart in her mouth she tentatively pushed it open further, the cat-flap rattling slightly with the movement.

Her nephew stood in the middle of the room, back to the door, staring intently at the thin ratty mattress on the ramshackle bed.

"It seems strange," he murmured in his low voice, "that just a year ago to you I was lying on this bed just there," he reached down tracing his fingers over one end of the vacant bed. Turning to Petunia he continued, "It has been nearly three hundred years for me."

"What?" Petunia snapped confused and frightened by this strange man.

"Quite," his lips curled in to a small smile.

OOOOOO

Things had not improved when Vernon and Dudley had returned home. Maybe-Harry had short-circuited Vernon's anger, much to Petunia's relief, shaking his uncle's hand with a sound of extreme tailoring under enormous pressure and presenting her husband with a bottle of expensive Scotch. Such a generous and unexpected donation of his favourite tipple had reduced Vernon to dark glares and occasional muttering. As for the chocolate the dangerous man presented Dudley with, her son had happily claimed it without comment and quickly set about tearing the wrapper off and demolishing the contents. Her son's tendency to accept sweets from anybody and everybody was a source of constant worry for Petunia but none of her lectures seemed to get through to her little darling. And so the afternoon wore on, in uncomfortable silence and stilted conversation, as every so often one of them got up the courage to ask the enormous man about his life, the stifling silence broken only by the sound of teacups on saucers, the occasional slurp of coffee and the munching of biscuits.

Petunia watched warily as Allesandor Carrow, as he'd explained he was called now, sipped his coffee daintily, little finger sticking out, the ruby eyes of his skull ring glinting in the bright summer sunshine. She wished he would stop smiling like that; it was quite unnerving, especially since she had the horrible suspicion he was trying to put them at their ease, to be _nice_ to them.

Dudley scratched his bottom while outside the sound of No.6 getting his petrol mower started, drifted in through the open window. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that shone in through the window, much to Petunia's disgust.

The man had every right to rant and rave, to be angry with them. They had treated him appallingly, given him the bare necessities, had worked him hard with chores and deliberately rubbed his nose in the fact that his cousin never went without while he had nothing. Why wasn't Carrow howling his rage; or was he just waiting for the right moment?

Vernon shifted uneasily on the settee and a fly buzzed drunkenly across the room; all the while the sun worked its way across the sky, the shafts of sunlight streaming through the ruffled lace curtains, marching across the lounge carpet.

"We didn't treat you right," Petunia blurted out, the elephant in the room finally getting to her. Vernon's head whipped round as he glared at her, incredulous that she would actually admit to such a thing.

"We...we neglected you and...and belittled you...and..." Petunia ground to a stuttering halt. Nervously clearing her throat, she continued "I can understand if you're angry with us," she whispered fearing the man's explosion.

Carrow looked at her thoughtfully, head tilted. "My childhood was no better and no worse than thousands of others. I had food, shelter, clothes on my back and a basic education. I have nothing to complain about; many people experience far worse."

"But..but..." Petunia stuttered.

Carrow raised an eyebrow, his acidic green gaze boring into her, corroding her reticence.

"We bullied you," she whispered, "because...because you were like your parents...magical," she shuddered at the terrible world which had only, in her eyes, brought misfortune to her family.

"We should have drowned you in a bucket," Vernon muttered under his breath.

"Yes, you should," Carrow stated flatly. Vernon stuttered frantically, face a funny putty colour.

"The question is; why didn't you?" Carrow asked, teeth glittering dangerously.

Unable to answer Vernon glared pale face beginning to rapidly colour in a blotchy display. Carrow leaned forward, his eyes intent. "It is the God-Emperor given duty of every person to eliminate the threat of the rogue psyker, to safe-guard humanity's existence. You knew what I was, yet you decided to stay your hand. Curious."

Vernon whimpered slightly as Carrow leaned back, the over-stuffed and frilly chintz chair creaking ominously.

"The fact is, for some misguided reason you showed me some sort of mercy," Carrow mused into the painful silence. "I sense the presence of the God-Emperor's hand in all this."

"What?" stuttered a bewildered Vernon who was floundering well out of his depth in this strange conversation.

Carrow sighed at the need to give simple explanations to simple people, "You let me live, you sent me to that school and then you locked me in that room. If you hadn't done all that then I would not be sitting in front of you the man I am today."

Smirking at his large and pasty uncle Carrow continued "Your moral failings had a use after all."

Vernon began to colour up, spluttering in indignation; he was a highly respectable member of society, far more than the dangerous lunatic sitting in front of him sipping coffee.

"Right," snapped Petunia, "I think that is the end of this conversation." She glared at the two men. "Such an unsuitable subject to discuss in front of Dudley."

Bewildered and increasingly bored by the adult conversation Dudley had long since recovered from his initial fear of the large and terrifying man who'd invaded his family's home. He was having extreme difficulties associating this man with his scrawny cousin who'd been able to freely menace just a year ago. It was very hard work and that was one thing that Dudley avoided at all cost. His mind wandering to what he'd really like to be doing at this instance in time he scooped up the nearby TV remote. One of his favourite programs should be starting very soon.

"_...a warning to the general public. An escaped serial killer is on the loose having absconded from prison yesterday. Sirius Black is highly dangerous and should not be approached in any circumstances. Any sightings should be reported to the police on this special hotline..."_

Carrow stared at the pict-caster disbelieving and furious beyond words.

"_...in other news..."_

"Now wait a minute," a riled-up Vernon shouted at the television, "what prison did he escape from? Stupid news, never gives all the information."

"Azkaban," Carrow growled, grinding out the word, "he escaped from Azkaban."

"Never heard of it," Vernon snapped.

"It's the Wizarding prison," Petunia blurted out, hand flying to her mouth in shock at what she had just said. Vernon stared at her eyes bulging.

"It is indeed." Carrow murmured standing, and slowly pacing in the small empty space in front of the window effectively blocking the sunshine from the room, the illumination from the television eerily gleaming off the various skulls decorating his person. Finally he turned to Petunia.

"Do you know what Mr Black is supposed to have done?"

Petunia shook her head nervously.

"He is supposed to be the person to have betrayed my biological parents' location to the..._Dark Lord,_" Carrow's face was blank of any emotion, "except there was never a trial and I have been unable to find any evidence to show that the man was at any point questioned."

"Typical wizards," Vernon muttered in the background.

Carrow smirked at him, "quite."

Petunia could feel the grief she'd viciously stamped down after finding out about her sister's untimely demise slowly raising its ugly head again, creeping up behind her. She was jolted from her increasingly miserable introspection when her nephew knelt in front of her, clasping her hands in his massive and surprisingly warm ones.

"Auntie," he murmured gently, his eyes intense and serious, "I will find out what happened and who was responsible, and I will keep you informed of my findings."

Petunia gave her huge nephew a watery smile.

"Thank-you," she whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

Author's Note

WARNING! This chapter contains some scenes that more delicate readers may not enjoy but are or will be important plot devices.

Potential upset No.1 Faulks smokes. It's his way of coping with working for a very violent overbearing man with no concept of boundaries. See if you could work for Carrow without developing an unsavoury habit.

Potential upset No.2 Wizards gambling on Cock-Fighting. I needed something for a corrupt wizard to gamble on so chose something that has been illegal for a long time in England but also has a rather seedy image in the UK but was likely to survive to survive in the Wizarding world...plus I've never seen it used in a fan-fiction before.

So now you are warned! Please enjoy

Chapter 2

It was a dark and moonless night and the sea heaved and fell in the brisk breeze, the little fishing vessel rolling and tilting with the waves. A tell-tale fire fly of red glow was all that could be seen of Timothy Faulks as he stood in the bows trying to keep out of the way of the crew, the collar of his leather storm coat turned up against the wind, waiting for his overly-large and overly-bearing employer to return from his dangerous and highly illegal swim to Azkaban, to put some extremely dangerous Death Eater prisoners out of everybody's misery.

Carrow had hired the fishing boat in order to get as close to as he could to the Wizarding prison, without alerting the security. Faulks shuddered delicately at the thought of swimming ten miles in that dark and icy-cold water, all in a bid to further his plans of Death Eater extermination. Faulks was sure the man was going to have a good snoop around for signs of any dementors, despite the fact the creatures were all meant to be out hunting for Sirius Black. Hopefully, Carrow would stop and think before eradicating whatever he found, thereby arousing suspicion and probably setting of the wards. Who knew that dementors of all things would need to be protected? It was all a forlorn hope, and after a month, Faulks was starting to become resigned to the idea that his boss was of "alternate" sanity.

OOOOOO

Ten miles away from the fishing boat and the pensive Faulks lay the forbidding rock, on which stood the Wizarding prison Azkaban. Surrounded by craggy cliffs and pounded by crashing waves, normally the only access to the island was by way of the jetty and the numerous steps carved in to the rock which led up to the prison itself. Not that Carrow was going to let that get in his way.

He heaved himself out of the dark and chilly water on to a low outcrop, water sluicing off his water impervious body-glove. He had decided to come lightly armed on this night time jaunt, and so his armament merely consisted of his boot-knife strapped to his right thigh. He quickly and efficiently scaled the cliff-face, easily finding hand and foot holds, the mica flakes of the rough rock not even so much as scratching his preternaturally tough skin. Reaching the wall of the prison proper, he continued upwards finding hand holds among the crumbling and slimy stone work of the prison wall, until he was able to pull himself over the top of the battlements and on to the walk-way. Quickly dropping into the shadows, he was surprised at the complete lack of guards patrolling the night. Did the Wizards really think that having their prison in the middle of an, admittedly, cold and stormy sea meant that it was safe from all and any attacks and breakouts? Even now, when the Ministry had sent out the Dementor guards to hunt for Black, they had apparently still not learnt from the incident and improved the security.

Ah yes, the Dementors. He'd spent the time since discovering their existence campaigning for their removal from the Wizarding prison with some small success. He wasn't the only person who didn't want to see such creatures in such an important position.

He'd never forget his first meeting with one of the damnable things. The Wizengamot had been sitting in trial of a murderer who had killed his next-door neighbour in the belief the man was having an affair with his wife, who he had then also gone on to kill as "punishment". Even when it had been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the whole "affair" was merely a product of the murderer's mind, the man had still been completely unrepentant, in fact had taken pleasure from his actions. And so the Wizengamot had voted for execution by the Kiss.

A dark and corpse-like creature swathed in rotten robes had been led in to the chambers, the temperature had noticeably dropped, frost forming on the floor around the repulsive creature; and that wasn't the only effect the thing was having as the normal, little people around him started to tremble slightly, heart-rates raised, sweating slightly as they fought the negative emotional impact the dementor was having on them. As a fully trained Astartes Librarian and Inquisitor he was virtually immune to such effects and so was initially puzzled as to the meat-sacks' odd behaviour. Psykically he could see the creature as a dark blot sucking in all the bright, vibrant colour around it...almost as if it were...feeding. Carrow frowned, not liking where this was going one bit. The convicted prisoner obviously agreed with him as he started to panic, to beg for his life, the edge of utter fear cutting the silence like a knife; and then the creature had swooped down on him, bringing its face to his and silencing him forever. Carrow stiffened in surprise, his muscles flexing, fists tightening, white knuckled. The creature had eaten the man's immortal soul, destroying it utterly. This was an _abomination_. How could the God-Emperor judge this man's soul if it had been destroyed? Where was this man's chance for redemption now?

Did the Wizarding world deliberately destroy the souls of those they condemned, or was this just yet another case of ignorance and lack of understanding on their part? He had a horrible suspicion it was. He was sure that, even if he lived to a thousand he would never understand the logic of these people.

Slinking quickly from shadow to shadow, Carrow quickly made his way to the stair turret only to be faced with a tiny door; a very tiny door. On opening the door he was hit by a gust of fetid air, full of the scent of unwashed people kept in close proximity with very poor sanitation. Cursing artisans who built with abnormally small people in mind, Carrow carefully eased his bulk through the tiny aperture desperately trying not to pull the flimsy wooden door off its hinges. The spiral staircase beyond wasn't much of an improvement, with very little room for him to manoeuvre in. When he got his hands on that Throne cursed artisan...

OOOOOO

The High Security Wing was exactly where the publicly available floor plans he'd found at the Ministry said it would be. The trusting idiots had complete layouts and maps readily accessible to any who wanted them. Yet another thing Carrow intended to change when he got the chance.

The austere interior of the fortress echoed with the wails and moans of the unfortunate inmates who had been driven insane by the close proximity of the dementors; a significant percentage of whom were completely innocent. Carrow ground his teeth in barely contained anger as he slipped down the corridor, looking carefully at the cell numbers; the sooner he was able to completely destroy the Dementors, the better. For now though, he had nearly a dozen Death Eaters, trapped here in this jail, waiting to have their necks wrung. This putting down of already incapacitated foes was rather distasteful to him; he would much rather kill them in true combat, but needs must when undertaking the Emperor's work.

The corroded metal plate beside this particular cell had been stamped with the number 3217, which made no sense since Carrow was certain the prison was, at a rough estimate, large enough for eight hundred or so cells, but of course wizards had done the numbering, and that_ did_ make sense. This particular cell should, God-Emperor willing, hold one Augustus Rookwood, a particularly interesting Death Eater cultist, who had set up a spy network within the Ministry itself. Carrow grinned to himself; why look a gift-grox in the mouth? It would save him so much time and effort.

After a quick application of telekinesis opened the offensively simple lock, Carrow slipped around the heavy wooden door and into the dank and dark cell beyond. Initially the small space appeared to be empty apart from the heap of rags bunched up in one corner, but as Carrow watched, head tilted, fascinated, a head popped up out of the flea-ridden pile. The skeletal face, skin stretched tight over the bones and yellow with jaundice seemed at first quite bewildered at the strange presence within its cell, as if it couldn't quite believe that the menacing figure of Carrow wasn't a hallucination.

Carrow prowled forward menacingly, and the corpse-like shell that was all that was left of Augustus Rookwood lurched to its feet, twig like legs shaking with the effort.

"Whu, whu..?" the once-was-a-man rasped, his throat scratchy and harsh from prolonged screaming, his head whipped from side to side, eyes bulging in panic, dirty grey dreadlocks flying round his face.

"The Justice of the God-Emperor has finally found you, heretic." hissed Carrow.

Rookwood froze, face scrunching in consternation. "Whu..?"

Carrow pounced, massive hand wrapping itself around the little man's jaw, muffling his scream, pressure just short of breaking his jaw. The last thing Rookwood would ever see would be the shadowy monster's eyes start to crackle with a blue fire.

Sinking in to the shadows of the cultist's mind, Carrow quickly and efficiently started sifting through the man's memories for useful information, ever alert for any signs of taint or a corrupting presence. Memories of the man's childhood sifted past, bright and glass-like, full of moneyed privilege and neglect, emotional pain making them razor sharp. Images of Hogwarts School, oddly familiar but strangely different, brash and jubilant as Rookwood found friends and acceptance, and then it got interesting, images of night-time meetings, heavily robed figures with white masks standing around a woodland grove paying their respects to a twisted, distorted monster of a man, memories shadowy and darkly triumphant as Rookwood was recruited straight out of school, and began his adult life the plaything of a corrupting monster. The years flitted past as atrocities mounted on atrocities, as innocent people, those who dared to stand up against the rot that had infected their society were ruthlessly hunted down and tortured and killed.

Carrow's mind reeled with names and dates, so many of which filled out the information he'd gathered so far. Now he didn't just know who'd died and when but also why and how. Blinking he became aware once more of the dank and foul smelling cell in which he stood, Rookwood's corpse dangling from his fist. The man's eyes were now bloody gaping holes in his head, and more blood flowed sluggishly from his nose and ears. A quick snap of the neck made doubly sure of the man's demise and then Carrow carefully rearranged the corpse in the rat's nest of bedding making it look for all the world as if the man were asleep.

Shouldering back in to the corridor Carrow carefully relocked the cell door behind him; it was always best to look after the small details. It was now quite possible that Rookwood's corpse wouldn't be discovered for weeks. After a quick listen for any possible guards, Carrow paced quietly down the corridor on the hunt for the next victim.

OOOOOO

The waves surrounding the fishing boat were becoming increasingly large, topped with white froth as a storm approached from the north. Busily nursing his fourth cigarette and trying to stay out of the crews' way, Faulks clung to the railing staring out to sea in the direction he knew Azkaban was, looking for a sign of Carrow in the darkness. A flash of movement, the gleam of damp skin, anything really, he wasn't fussy.

A large hand reached over the railing, as Carrow easily pulled himself up the chain ladder that hung over the side of the boat, and on to the deck, icy cold water sluicing off him in a veritable waterfall. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye he turned to see young Timothy standing there, cigarette in hand, a look of relief and concern on his features. Carrow blinked in mild surprise; he wasn't used to being looked at like that. The shutters fell, and Faulks' face returned to its usual neutral expression. A slightly trembling hand raised the cigarette to his lips as he watched Carrow turn on the charm and greet the boat's crew.

"So..." Faulks began, "I take it your midnight jaunt was profitable?"

Carrow grinned like a well-fed predator. "Most definitely."

OOOOOO

The stuffed Nundu head stared at him from its place on Carrow's office wall. Faulks was beginning to regret having joked about having the wretched thing stuffed and mounted. Carrow had taken him completely seriously and now the blasted thing stared down at any, already nervous, visitors to Carrow's office, its visage frozen in a snarl. Faulks was sure the blasted man had charmed the wretched thing to blink every so often. It was a major distraction from the paperwork he was going through with Carrow.

Behind Carrow a gruesome picture hung on the wall depicting a never ending battle between black and yellow armoured figures, which he understood were the Charnel guard themselves, and what looked a little bit like trolls, intelligent trolls. In fact the wretched picture was so noisy, particularly when the troll things started bellowing WAAAGH _en masse_, that it had been necessary to cast a muffling charm on it. Which begged the question, could Wizarding portraits die? Because there seemed to be a never ending tide of the troll things for the over-armoured maniacs to slash, hack and generally turn into offal.

Which brought him nicely to the man himself sitting, well, looming really on the other side of the normal sized desk writing out a lengthy report in his small and precise handwriting; every single week Carrow wrote one of these reports and Faulks had still not been able to find out who he sent them to.

After several months of working for Carrow he was no closer to unravelling the puzzle that was the man than he was before. It was the strange contrasts that were particularly notable. On the one hand Carrow was capable of great kindness and decency, and possessed great moral integrity and was a firm believer in the importance of justice. But Carrow was at base an extremely violent, brutal person with a ridiculous weapons obsession, a childish delight in large explosions, and a casual attitude to murder, all topped off with the man's firm belief that he had an excellent sense of humour. This was probably true if you were a twelve year old boy. Faulks couldn't prove it, but he was pretty certain that Carrow had quite a lot to do with the incident involving the enlarged spider in the ladies lavatory just down the corridor. It was the way the traumatised arachnid had been thoroughly charmed to be impervious to magic, the way the wizards were forced to think outside the box to get rid of the poor thing, that felt like a distinctly Carrow touch.

But Carrow was also intensely religious, and like clockwork prayed at the small altar in his office or his home chapel five times a day. Trying to interrupt this routine was akin to assisted suicide. But what was his religion? And who was the God-Emperor? It was nothing Faulks was familiar with, which led him to the other painting in the office. The one that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Another example of Carrow's handiwork, it adorned the wall opposite the scowling Nundu; depicting an extremely large, muscular and very scarred man being tortured by dark and evil looking creatures with pale pointed faces and glittering slits for eyes, Faulks could just about cope with that, but it was the man's expression that, without fail, upset him. Carrow had assured him the image was morally uplifting, an ode to the strength and fortitude of the human will, homage to the importance of strength and faith. It just made Faulks shudder.

Carrow had even told him the story behind it, of a Chaplain of the Charnel Guard who was captured by Dark Eldar and tortured by them. He managed to escape, causing mass slaughter in the process before making his way back to his Chapter. The tests and trials the Chapter elders then put him through proved his purity of mind, body and soul whereupon he was welcomed back with open arms.

Faulks found it difficult to be morally uplifted, and instead seriously regretted giving Carrow the Wizarding Painting gift set for his birthday. It had been worth it, just to see the completely out of character display of bewilderment and shock. But then his boss started showing him little paintings of battle-scenes and expecting him to _admire_ them. It was difficult to enjoy pictures of little people savagely butchering each other over and over again, especially after the first dozen...and then he'd painted _that._

Faulks frowned at the gruesome picture of the Chaplain, as yet again the creepy, shadowy figures began the process of peeling the skin off his torso, inch by torturous inch.

"Why would anybody put up with such treatment, he never utters a sound!" he finally burst out, unable to contain his discomfort and disgust at the painting any longer.

Carrow considered him for a moment.

"Because he did not fear, because the consequences of giving in were so terrible, because he believed passionately in something greater than himself."

Faulks swallowed nervously under the sheer chilling intensity of the older man's gaze. "He had the strength of will, the dedication to fight for what he believed in, and the faith to die protecting it."

Faulks nodded slowly, nervous as to where this particular conversation was going to go, the last one had been bad enough.

Carrow leaned forward.

"What do _you_ believe in Timothy?" Carrow enquired softly, the intensity of his gaze never lessening for a moment.

"I...I..." Faulks stuttered, completely flummoxed by the question. Did the man mean religiously? Or a personal philosophy? He'd never really thought about it. He'd never had to really, he'd just meandered through life much the same as everybody else, his responses and beliefs haphazard and randomly picked up from the life he had experienced so far. Wasn't that how everybody worked?

Carrow rose to his feet and swiftly strode around his desk, Faulks jumping to his feet, spilling forms and other paperwork on the floor.

"Sir..." he began.

Clasping Timothy's shoulders with his heavy hands Carrow leaned forward, concerned and intense.

"Timothy, I'm worried about you, about your well-being, mind, body and soul. I can teach you to defend yourself physically and mentally but only you can protect your soul." He paused wondering how best to put this. "I see you lack faith, faith in anything very much; but faith is vital! There are things out there...unknowable things...that will see your weakness and _will_ take advantage," he gently shook his hands to emphasise his point, "you must have _faith_ Timothy!"

Faulks stared up in to the larger man's face, pale and shaken. Swallowing thickly, he nodded, nerves jangling. Carrow stepped back seemingly satisfied.

"I'll just..." he gestured with a shaking hand at the paperwork strewn on the floor.

OOOOOO

Carrow watched thoughtfully as the office door closed on Faulks' retreating back. That had gone better than last time. The painting of Brother-Chaplain Tiberius had apparently had its usual effect. He gazed contemplatively at his creation. It was the closest he'd been able to achieve to recreating the incredible image of the Chapter hero, which hung in the main temple on board the _Spiritus Mortis,_ one of the colossal ships which made up the Charnel Guard's home fleet. And it had obviously affected young Timothy deeply, just as it had when he had first seen it as a tiny noviciate, what seemed like an age ago...he murmured a prayer, making the sign of the Aquila, for the memory of a fallen brother and a hero of the Chapter.

But for now there were more pressing matters. Closing his eyes he cast his mind out in to the world, seeking out the psykic fire-flies that were the people who worked in the Ministry, enabling the Magical world to limp on much as it had for the past few decades.

He brushed up against the nearest mind and found himself looking through Timothy's troubled eyes...he had his head in his hands, shaken by the sheer intensity of his employer's...confrontational behaviour, his intensity of belief in his view of the universe...Faulks looked up at the whimsical sign he bought for his desk on a silly whim. "You don't have to be insane to work here but it helps!" was starting to look increasingly like sound advise...Carrow drifted away slowly, concerned for the boy, but he couldn't afford to be soft or kind to him, it would only get him dead...further along the corridor, a Wizengamot member, an elderly friend of the senior Nott nervously nibbling at his finger nails as he went to see the man about putting that upstart Potter...Carrow... whatever his name was in his place...

Carrow followed the man's meandering thoughts for a few moments...their plans to expose him as a giant "half-breed" were laughable and a potentially irritating distraction. He would let them rumble along for a while before closing them down with extreme prejudice...

He drifted for a moment catching little tid-bits of gossip and the general mood of the government of the British Wizarding World... desperation from struggling muggle-borns, and the less-well heeled pure-bloods trapped in insultingly menial jobs, the stain of corruption as friends formed little cliques, and people made extra gold from bribes on the side. He carefully checked through the minds that made up Rookwood's old spy network checking their suitability. He'd already started putting out feelers to some of them...

He drifted on towards the Auror department, brushing up against the mind of Amelia Bones. The Head Auror was currently at her desk working through the reports of her underlings, though part of her mind was on her niece. Susan was about to start her third year at Hogwarts. Her brother would be so proud of the fine young woman his little girl was growing in to...Madam Bones leant back, rubbing her eyes as she dealt with the dull ache of the grief she had lived with for over a decade. So many decent people had been destroyed by the war...

Carrow unobtrusively disengaged from the woman's mind and quietly moved on, brushing delicately against the minds of the clerical staff...the odd cleaner...security, what there was of it...and then the Aurors themselves...he was irritated at yet again having to book a serial muggle baiter who'd charmed phantom footsteps to follow his neighbour around their home. He didn't care about the man's complaints about the neighbour's dog barking at all hours. That's what silencing charms were for...

Carrow skittered away from the man's angry internal rant, instead concentrating on one of the most puzzling minds he'd ever come across... brightly coloured, a dazzling array of swirling, changing colours and shapes, as if it couldn't quite settle on a final form, in constant flux at the whim and emotional change of the owner..."Cadet Tonks..." the mind leapt to attention, "Yes sir?"...Carrow drifted away fascinated, such a strange mind, but no sign of taint...he drifted on...somebody eager for their coffee break, another idly flicking through the day's paper...and then he found the one he was looking for, stinking of nerves and desperation. The Auror, William Suggs (or Suggy to his friends), was contemplating his options, he'd managed to bully several hundred galleons out of one of the younger, more gullible cadets and now had an opportunity...a golden opportunity to make some much needed cash, get some of the people he owed money to off his back. One of his gambling buddies had given him a tip about a cock-fight going down that very evening at the Medusa's Head. If he put some gold on...he was in with a chance...

Carrow drifted away, thoughtful. This man was heavily in debt to the late and not much lamented Malfoy Senior and his friends...among other people. In return he'd turned a blind eye and even assisted in Malfoy's manipulations of the justice system enabling innocent people to be locked away without trial...and now Malfoy was gone, the man was vulnerable and ripe for the picking...in the privacy of his office Carrow drew his lips back in a parody of a smile.

OOOOOO

The air was damp and muggy as the small and eclectic group made their way towards the Medusa's Head deep in the Knockturn district. Faulks shivered slightly as he pulled his cloak closer around himself. He was supposed to be a personal assistant and secretary, and here he was about to take part in a plan to expose corruption at the Ministry in a particularly dangerous and unorthodox way. This definitely went beyond the call of duty.

With Carrow walking in a looming fashion by his side and Natasha skipping ahead hissing aggressively at unwary passers-by who had been minding their business Faulks just knew this evening was going to be...memorable, there was just something in the air...

A flicker of movement on the rooftop startled Faulks out of his foreboding. He surreptitiously glanced at Carrow; of course the man was aware they had company. Faulks rolled his eyes. Now it was just a matter of _when_ trouble erupted, not _if_. Another flicker of movement on the other side of the alley, as if something had run across the rooftops with preternatural speed. A swish and flutter of fabric moving, and then two men, tall and heavily cloaked appeared mere yards away from them. Faulks, used to Natasha doing something very similar, managed to suppress a flinch, looking at the new-comers with uninterest. Natasha on the other hand hissed and snarled at the foreboding figures before darting behind Faulks using him as an impromptu shield and possible distraction.

"Hand her over," the left-hand figure growled, "and nobody gets hurt."

The right-hand figure sniggered. "She's ours. I've no idea how you got hold of her but you better not have hurt her in any way," he crept forward, a knife appearing in a hand, "if you have, I won't be able to hold myself accountable for my actions," his voice turning into a snarl.

Carrow stepped more fully into view, "I can assure you gentlemen that Natasha has not been harmed in any way at all." His impossibly deep voice rumbled around the narrow lane, "now, if you would care to introduce yourselves?"

The two figures, more than happy to attempt intimidation tactics on Faulks backed down when forced with the imposing figure of Carrow who towered over them. They exchanged looks, before slowly lowering their hoods. It was hard to see their precise appearance in the dim light, but the fact they were vampires was clear as their eyes shone with phosphorescence reflecting back the meagre light.

"Charles" muttered the left-hand figure sulkily. "And I'm Edwin," the right-hand figure huffed. "I'm Natasha's brother and you better not have harmed her in any way," he glowered nastily at Carrow and Faulks. Natasha hissed at him from her hiding place.

"Well, that wasn't so hard was it?" Carrow smirked viciously. "Why don't you all come down," he looked at the rooftops on either side of the lane, "and we can sort out any misunderstandings like decent gentlefolk."

Soft rustlings and thuds announced the arrival of the other vampires. Faulks narrowed his eyes; so, including Natasha who was busily hanging on to the back of his cloak, he was now trapped in a narrow lane with thirteen vampires. Wasn't that a baker's dozen?

OOOOOO

As Carrow finished his explanation of his current care for Natasha Edwin groaned and put his head in his hands. "I didn't think she could walk," he whispered. He looked up at his little sister. "Can you forgive me Natasha?"

"I told you," snapped Charles, "honestly, Natasha has always been strong-minded even before that Wizard trash got his hands on her, but no, would you listen?" he sniffed disdainfully.

Edwin rounded on the other vampire, "My poor sister couldn't even feed herself let alone stand up! Why would I think she was able to walk across a room, down three flights of steps and then make it two miles across Knockturn?" Edwin gestured wildly. "There's strong minded and then there's bloody stupid!"

Carrow watched in bemusement as the conversation between the two vampires degenerated in to a full scale slanging match. Deciding he was bored with the impromptu entertainment, Carrow cleared his throat. The sound, like a distant avalanche, rumbled around the narrow lane, causing the bickering pair to startle.

"Well gentlemen, I think for the time being Natasha is best off in my care," Carrow eyed the two sullen vampires carefully, "but I do have a little proposition for you, all of you really." He eyed the other shadowy figures. "I will employ you all...including lodgings...and meals...if you can prove yourselves to me."

The vampires stared at the abnormally large man as if he were a particularly interesting freak show act.

"You do realise we are vampires," Edwin said slowly, "you know, the whole drink blood, severely allergic to sunlight shebang?"

"Yes," Carrow smiled politely, "I am aware of your...physicality." his smile turned predatory.

Edwin and Charles shared dubious looks. "So...what would this involve precisely?" Edwin cautiously enquired.

OOOOOO

Auror Suggs sidled in to the Medusa's Head in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. He was supposed to be on duty several miles away, but this...this was too good a money making opportunity to miss. The regular patrons of the seedy inn took no notice of the uniformed law-enforcer as he made his way towards what passed as a bar across the dirty, sticky floor, dodging the equally dirty and sticky patrons through the smoky, rancid atmosphere the place. Everybody knew old "Suggy" Suggs was a regular here, in uniform or out.

He'd just have a finger or two of fire-whisky, just to fortify him for the evening to come. He always got terrible nerves else, and then maybe he'd have a little flutter on the cock-fight before the big one, just to warm up. This was promising to be an interesting evening.

OOOOO

Suggy sat as near the edge of the fighting pit as he could, glass of fire-whisky clutched in his hand. He's had a few, well more than a few if he was being honest, and was feeling rather mellow. He was even up, having done well on the previous fight. The fighting-cock he'd picked, a very handsome bird, large and solid with a fearsome gleam to his beady eyes had put up a good showing and seriously injured his opponent. Suggy had been ecstatic. Finally his run of bad luck had broken. It was about time too.

And now it was time for the fight of the evening, the one he'd been looking forward to, in fact he was so confident he'd put all his money on the bird with the in-house bookie Paddy, with his greasy deerstalker hat and mutton chop whiskers. The man had been reluctant to take his money, but he'd been insistent.

Suggy leaned forward eagerly as the bird handlers brought out the two prize-fighters and the fight-master announced the two birds. On the left was Bonny Benny, a tall and strong looking bird with beautiful russet plumage, his comb carefully trimmed off to reduce physical injury during the fights. He was a mean looking customer, especially with the spurs taped to his heels. Suggy had picked the other bird though, the one he'd been tipped; Prince Frederick wasn't as tall as Bonny Benny, but he was stockier, more powerfully built and muscular. He'd obviously been in the fighting ring before too, as he sported the odd war wound. The bird was a survivor and looked a very mean customer as he strutted back and forth, the fighting spurs on his heels clicking on the floor of the fighting pit. Suggy carefully eyed the fighting-cock he'd sunk all his money on, feeling he'd made a sound investment.

As the bird-handlers held their charges ready, and the fight-master stood leant over, hand between the combatants, the tension around the ring rose until you could cut it with a knife.

"FIGHT!" the call came, the birds were released, the fight-master jumping back, leaving the two fighting-cocks alone in the ring.

The two birds eyed one another warily, making their bodies as tall as they could, wings slightly spread in an effort to appear more intimidating than the other, as they circled around one another oblivious to the thunderous shouting and encouragement of the drunken crowd. With a sudden down beat of his wings, Bonny Benny leapt into the air, his feet coming forward, claws ready to slash Prince Frederick to ribbons, but Prince Frederick dodged and pecked, and leapt himself, landing a huge blow to Bonny Benny, gashing his chest with his metal spurs. Bonny Benny cackled in pain, lashing out with his beak at the other bird.

Round and round they circled, lashing out, neither bird quite gaining the upper hand, both increasingly covered with injuries from the metal heel spurs. Bonny Benny leapt again, lashing out with his claws, the heel spike catching Prince Frederick in the wing just behind the bone locking the two unfortunate birds together as they continued to fight one another despite being attached in such a painful manner.

The bird-handlers raced forward to detach the birds, gaining many scratches and pecks to their hands and arms as they worked to separate the two furious birds. That done, they stepped back and released them again, but by then Prince Frederick was rapidly losing blood from his many injuries, his movements becoming increasingly sluggish and weak. Unable to fight off Bonny Benny in any way, Prince Frederick quickly succumbed to his increasing injuries.

As the fight-master announced the winner, Suggy lowered his hands from his hair his face contorted in utter horror, cold to the marrow. He'd just lost four hundred galleons that he was highly unlikely to see again, his money problems worse than ever, and now another person at his back demanding coin off him.

"No, no, no, No, NO!" he groaned hands tearing at his hair. How could this be happening, that tip had been solid! It must have been a fix, it must have! Maybe Prince Frederick had been drugged affecting his responses, or Bonny Benny had been given muscle stimulants? Something wasn't right with the fight. How could those two birds become locked together like that? He'd never seen the like before. It was all a scam, a complete scam, and he was going to have it out with them, the bird handlers, the fight-master, whoever he could get his hands on. He looked around the inn wildly, not really seeing the other patrons, his face contorting in rage. His eyes alighted on Paddy the bookie grinning with his rotten teeth at a happy punter as he counted their winnings to them. The flash of gold in the murky light of the inn caught Suggy's eye and he saw red. That was _his _money, HIS, and Paddy was giving it to someone else. Shaking with murderous rage Suggy shoved his way through the patrons of the inn unseeing, completely focused on Paddy as he counted out winnings to yet another gleeful punter.

"I want my money back!" Suggy bellowed at the unsuspecting bookie, "Give me my sodding money back!" he screamed.

Paddie backed away from the drunk and enraged Auror, reaching for the cudgel he kept tucked away in his little booth for just such situations. The other patrons, completely used to such scenes ignored the sore loser.

Not far from Suggy's shaking back, a shadowy and cloaked figure with gleaming eyes discretely picked up a glass bottle and slung it hard at the head of a well known local trouble maker. The man fell to the floor to the shock of his friends, who shouted in concern and helped the dazed man to his feet. Blood pouring down the back of his head and face fixed in a snarl, he scanned the crowd for a likely suspect, before pouncing on them, knocking them to the floor with much shouting and cursing. The thug's friends intervened when the victim's friends tried to rescue him. The fight spread like a cold virus.

OOOOOO

"Take a breather, Billy Suggs." Paddy said, trying to be as soothing as possibly while holding a cudgel. "Go outside and get some fresh air and then come back, and then we'll talk this through."

But Suggy was just too lost in his anger, just two desperate and scared to take any notice of any advice he was given, "Just give me my money back. It was all a sodding scam. You stole from me!" he screamed, drunkenly brandishing his wand and flicking a blasting curse at the bookie, turning his cubicle in to matchwood as the man manage to throw himself to one side just in time. Paddy recovered quickly and lashed out with his cudgel knocking the wand from the enraged Auror's hand.

Suggy went for his knife, the silver one he'd started carrying after a really nasty run-in with Greyback and his crew a few years ago. He lunged forward but Paddy dodged.

"Calm down Suggy!" Paddy shouted desperately over the din of the riot. "Don't do something you'll regret. Just calm down, son, and we can talk about this."

In a relatively quiet corner on the other side of the inn, a heavily cloaked figure prized the cap off a bottle of moonshine, inserted a strip of rag, and ignited it before throwing the makeshift incendiary behind the ramshackle bar. The bottle exploded with a wumph, and fire soared upwards and across the bar space fuelled by years of spilt alcohol and tinder dry, semi-rotten wood. The rioting, drunken crowd started screaming.

Paddy jumped and turned when he heard the roar of the fledgling fire, his mouth open in horror at the unfolding disaster, and that was when Suggy struck. He physically dragged Paddy towards him stabbing the man under the ribs as hard as he could with his silver knife. With a sad little "oh", Paddy crumpled in the Auror's arms, the life bleeding away from his body, reducing it to so much inanimate flesh. Suggy froze staring at the lifeless eyes of the bookie, now filled only with the reflection of the growing fire. What had he done? What had he been thinking? Suggy started to shake uncontrollably, the bloody knife slipping from his hand, the other scrubbing uselessly at his mouth.

He turned slowly to see members of the Aurors, many he'd worked with for years, throwing flame freezing charms at the budding fire and assisting injured people out of the inn while locking known combatants in handcuffs. A slight shuffling sound to his left caught the dazed Suggy's attention, and there stood his supervisor, face frozen in a cold icy rage that chilled Suggy's blood to the bone. Never before had he so wished for the ground to just open up and swallow him whole.

OOOOOO

A mile away Carrow, his small entourage and the Slink Alley coven of vampires stood and admired the rising column of smoke and flames as Ministry officials fought to contain one of the worst fires the Knockturn area had seen in years.

Edwin and Charles eyed the large man.

"Well?" Edwin enquired, "How did we do?"

Carrow considered the vampires for a moment. They had managed to attract the attention of the Aurors, caused utter mayhem and extensive property damage while having got out of the danger zone safely and without attracting attention. He hummed to himself thoughtfully.

Charles opened his mouth intent on adding his penny's worth, but Carrow beat him to it.

"You're hired," he growled.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

Author's Note

This chapter just grew...and grew...and grew...and at no point could I see a reasonable place to chop the thing in half.

Chapter 3

The noise level in the Great Hall rapidly escalated, as the returning students poured in excitedly, catching up with friends and eager for food after their long train ride across the country. Already seated at the staff table, Snape noticed a distinct edge to the normal chatter, with many students nervously looking towards the staff table, before visibly relaxing. Carrow had obviously made a lasting impression. Remus Lupin, the new Defence teacher, had an extremely hard act to follow. Snape almost felt sorry for the man...almost. He certainly wouldn't want to have to follow Carrow as a teacher. He glanced down the staff table to the shabby threadbare man, and, seeing the man looking his way, tried a Carrow smile on him. Lupin blanched, his head snapping forward again, and Snape chuckled to himself.

As the hall slowly filled and came to some order, Snape started looking out for students he tended to keep an eye on. Crabbe and Goyle were looking rather lost; not only had they lost their favourite teacher, now Carrow was gone, they'd also lost Draco Malfoy. After several Wizengamot sessions with Carrow present, Narcissa had decided that the French air would be better for her little boy's delicate constitution, and had transferred him to Beauxbatons, while moving to the Malfoy family summer villa to be nearby for him. Snape could understand Carrow made Narcissa Malfoy nervous, but really, moving country? A little on the excessive side, he felt.

The Ravenclaws were being their usual selves, a heated debate having already erupted among the older students, while the younger ones listened. It was possible they were debating Carrow's merits as a professor, but frankly they were Ravenclaw, so it could be about anything under the sun.

His gaze travelled on. Cedric Diggory and his small group of close friends all looked rather disappointed at the lack of the large and overbearing man. The Hufflepuffs had been a real surprise; though many of them had found Carrow's teaching methods hard to stomach, his utter devotion and dedication to his ideals really struck a chord with the house of the badger, who had welcomed the man with open arms.

The Gryffindors, on the other hand, had been much more wary of Carrow, probably unnerved by the idea that he had once been one of their own. But a few had warmed up to him; the Weasley twins for one would, given the chance, devote their lives to serve the man, maybe even sell their souls to do so, and their friend Lee Jordan wasn't far behind...and then there was Hermione Granger. He'd actually met her during the summer at the Lodge, Carrow's new residence, where she was staying for several weeks. It was almost as if Carrow had taken her on as an apprentice, and was continuing the training he'd started at Hogwarts. Miss Granger seemed to be flourishing under the giant bully's attentions. What was Carrow up to? And did he really want to know?

Not that he was really complaining; after all he had benefited greatly from the man's generosity. Thanks to the gift of the basilisk corpse, Snape was now an extremely wealthy man. Not Malfoy wealthy, but rich enough that he could seriously consider pursuing lines of research with several potions that had hither to been closed off to him, purely due to the exorbitant cost of ingredients...and then the man had insisted on gifting him with some fresh nundu body parts, some beyond rare. Even now he had a whole liver sitting in his private ingredients store under stasis charms, just waiting to be used.

And why had he been at the Lodge? Carrow was having problems with basic household charms. The man was so ridiculously powerful, that attempting to use basic cleaning charms would result in several inches of the unfortunate object's surface being removed, a shoelace tying charm would cause the shoe itself to tie into a knot before exploding, and the use of a dishwashing charm...well the kitchen was never going to be the same again. Carrow's OWL and NEWT results neatly reflected Carrow's little problem. The man had barely passed his Transfiguration, Charms and DADA OWLS, and that only due to his exemplary theory scores. Anything that did not involve a wand he had aced. He had done a lot better on the NEWTS, gaining a commendation for his exceptional conjuration, though again he'd barely passed Charms and DADA.

Some of the household maintenance Carrow had been able to task to the revolting golems he had made while still living at Hogwarts, but they were useless at anything that required more than basic repetition. In the end, Carrow had taken Snape's advice, and acquired a couple of house elves. The large man had approved of the household helpers in principle; the idea of a non-human creature that lived to serve humanity's every whim fitted neatly into Carrow's world view, but the reality of the over-zealous little creatures was another matter. Snape still laughed himself silly every time he recalled one of the little things wrapping its arms around one of Carrow's thick muscular legs and sobbing that he was "the bestest master ever"; the big man's face had been an absolute picture.

And thinking of Gryffindors, where was Miss Granger? Snape could see the youngest Weasley boy was saving a place for her, as he shooed several of his year mates away from the sacred space...but then the young lady in question slipped in to the Great Hall, taking her seat just before McGonagall led the new first years in. Everything about her and young Weasley's behaviour smacked of "up to no good". Snape had no idea what it could be. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he watched the two have an animated discussion, all his teacher instincts screaming "here be trouble". Taking a sip of the coffee he'd managed to persuade the kitchen elves to serve him instead of the usual pumpkin juice, he considered his options. In the end, it seemed best to leave them to it. If it proved to be dangerous though, he would step in and put a stop to it...with extreme prejudice.

The Sorting passed quite normally, the tiny little first years timidly approaching the stool for their turn, and then scurrying off to their new house table. Snape swore they got smaller every year. At least this year's crop looked reasonably promising.

As the feast proceeded, apparently normally, Snape kept half an eye on the Gryffindor table alert for anything...prank like. He was not to be disappointed. As the twins began a how-much-pumpkin-juice-can-you-drink-in-one-go competition with their friends, they became troubled as their hair began to grow uncontrollably...all their hair. Slowly at first, gradually increasing speed, their fringes flopped over their eyes, tangling with their lengthening eyebrows and lashes, then down into their goblets before completely covering their faces, but it didn't stop there. The recalcitrant strands wove their way through the boys' clothing before romping across the table and trailing over the floor until all that could be seen of the two Weasley boys was a great mound of quivering, gleaming bronze hair that gave out indignant and muffled shouts every so often. Snape stared; if this was how the start of the year was going to be, he dreaded to think what things were going to be like by June; probably up to their necks in conjured baby kangaroos or something.

Over the shouts, cheers and laughter of the students Dumbledore called for calm.

It was quite impressive in a way, Snape thought idly, as he watched Madam Pomfrey examining the two boys, preparatory to cutting them free of the Gryffindor table and bench.

"Well, there's no sign of any sort of hex or jinx." Madam Pomfrey said as she stepped back from her examination of the two boys. "I suspect somebody slipped them a potion somehow, probably not correctly brewed either, but you'd have to check with Severus."

Albus and Minerva turned to the resident potions master. "I'm inclined to agree with Madam Pomfrey." he said in his usual flat tone. "A botched hair growth or baldness relieving potion, I think, considering it appears to have affected more than their head hair." He carefully pulled aside a large copper lock. "Probably slipped in to all that pumpkin juice they were busily guzzling earlier." He sneered at the giant hair pile.

"Will the usual antidote work, do you think?" Madam Pomfrey politely asked.

Snape considered the matter. "Doubtful; without getting a sample of the specific potion they were dosed with, and seeing how it had been altered, I couldn't tell you. At least it appears to have worked its course." He considered the twin piles of hair. "It's probably best to just do it the hard way."

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "I know a really useful depilation charm that'll be just the ticket for the job."

The twin mounds of hair whimpered.

OOOOOO

On his way out of the hall he spied the two possible perpetrators; Miss Granger and Mr Weasley were standing with the other students, watching the proceedings with a glint of satisfaction in their eyes. Their eyes widened nervously when they saw him watching, so Snape grinned again revelling in the panicky reaction it received. Carrow was defiantly on to something with his repertoire of nasty smiles.

OOOOOO

Fred and George Weasley sat side by side at the Gryffindor table, their faces unusually grim and not a hair to be seen anywhere on their heads. Around them occasional out-breaks of sniggers occurred, but quickly stopped when a twin flattened the perpetrator with a glare.

"Sooo..."began Lee Jordan, "how did it...well..." He gestured hopelessly, lost for words, but intensely curious.

The twins looked at one another.

"It went as well as could be expected."

The other twin nodded in agreement.

"About as well as being plucked like a chicken ever goes..."

"...and just about as excruciating as well."

They turned back to their friend.

"My personal favourite was when Madam Pomfrey pulled my nasal hairs out one by one. Definitely a memorable experience that." George nodded sagely. Jordan winced.

"My dear brother, what about when Pomfrey plucked out our testi..."

"Whoa, whoa," Jordan waved his arms, as if warding off the awfulness the twins' experiences, "way too much information; seriously not wanting to know about that over here."

Nearby male students winced, and nodded in general agreement.

"Well," Fred continued, "other than that, we feel rather drafty. It's amazing how important body hair is for keeping warm."

"Not to mention how sensitive certain bodily parts can become after being plucked in delicate places. Pomfrey even warned us about in-growing hairs."

George dramatically put his hand to his forehead. "Calamity! My eyebrows will never be the same!" Fred nodded solemnly.

"Don't worry," Fred continued with a vicious smile that would have made Professor Carrow proud, "we're more than willing to share our pain and suffering with our rival pranksters."

Fortunately the whirring fluttering of the owl post distracted the students from the Weasley twins' misery.

OOOOOO

Snape smirked into his coffee, suppressing a chuckle as he observed the morning sunshine gleaming off two bald heads at the Gryffindor table. So the terrible twins had finally been given a taste of their own medicine, and in a particularly imaginative way too. He probably could have brewed an antidote; after all there were only so many ways in which a basic hair growth potion could be altered. However, watching Poppy pluck the boys had been much more fun.

A fluttering whir signalled the arrival of the owl post, and Snape looked expectantly for his copy of the morning's paper. As the owl approached he frowned in puzzlement. Today's edition appeared to be unusually hefty. Without another thought, he opened his copy while reaching for his drink. A casual glance at the front headline brought Snape's comfortable morning routine to a screeching halt, choking on a mouthful of coffee.

"DEATH EATERS DEAD!" screamed the headline in three inch high lettering that scrolled across the front page. Snape winced at the abominable typography, before looking at the dozen photographs underneath, each one a Death Eater, each one a familiar face, people he'd gone to school with, others he'd met after leaving Hogwarts when he'd joined the Death Eaters, and had started to move in those circles...and now they were all dead. At the same time. Which was slightly odd since they had all been imprisoned in Azkaban, and, while the place was notoriously unhealthy, for nearly a dozen people to die all at once was more than a little odd. With slightly trembling hands, Snape opened the paper.

"...only discovered because of the distressing smell..."

"...dead for weeks..."

"...uncertainty over the timescale..."

"...all cells still locked..."

"...no obvious signs of foul play..."

"...several of the deceased had broken necks...a sign of a tragic accident or something more sinister..."

"...probably died within moments of one another..."

...and it went on and on, becoming increasingly clear that actually nobody had any real idea at all of the exact circumstances leading up to these deaths. And the bodies themselves weren't talking either; frankly they were just too decomposed. Snape looked up, mind working at a frantic rate, observing the Great Hall unseeingly. Huddles of frightened students frantically discussed the article; even the teaching staff were affected, McGonagall, Sprout and Pomfrey all huddled over a copy of the paper, having a quiet but heated discussion, while Flitwick read the editorial, forgotten scrambled eggs slowly dripping off his fork and onto his lap unheeded.

Snape didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand these were people he had mixed with socially, and in a few cases known quite well, but on the other hand they had all committed dreadful crimes and for a few of them (the Lestranges came to mind) this was definitely a case of good riddance to bad rubbish. He rubbed a hand down his face, leaning back in his chair. The evidence that had actually made it in to the Daily Prophet was inconclusive to say the least, but there was the suggestion of foul play; he could think of a few people who had the skills and temperament to commit such an act, but they were almost exclusively international hit-wizards or criminals with a similar reputation...except...Snape looked down at the photographs of familiar and very dead faces. It was highly unlikely that anybody would ever be able to prove that the monstrous man had done this, and it was highly unlikely that he would ever willingly admit to having committed this act, but he'd proved himself more than capable of such things on numerous occasions.

Snape was so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly missed the small story that had been pushed to the bottom of page eight. "Nott Family Head Dead in Mugging Gone Wrong"

...mutilated body found in Skit Alley, Knockturn area...

...nearby, a hag was arrested after being found with a half cooked human liver, and finger pies...

...illegal meat suspected to have been looted from Quentin Nott's body...

How in Merlin's name did Quentin Nott, master dueller and all round nasty tough get _mugged _in Knockturn, and the sheer indignity of his lifeless corpse being dismembered and eaten...if Snape hadn't been sure of Carrow's involvement before, in a sick and strange way, he certainly was now. Snape rubbed at his forehead the beginnings of a headache starting up just above his left eye. This was like the last war before all hell broke loose, strange murders and disappearances as the Dark Lord removed everybody who was an immediate threat...except this time, the predator had become the prey, and the Death Eaters themselves were busily being exterminated. Except their removal was a good thing...wasn't it? After all many of them had done horrific things, Quentin Nott included, and got away with it scot free, so why did he feel so uneasy?

OOOOOO

Faulks growled in frustration as yet again his new computer presented him with the notorious blue-screen-of-death. He glared horribly at the little brass cog and candle that Carrow had insisted should be lit, at all times, while using the device, in order to appease the computer's "machine spirit". It didn't work, particularly when the computer in question had the mentality of an easily distracted three year old. At least he'd only recently saved the document he'd been working on, typing up all the information that they'd so far discovered relating to the sorry case of Lucretia Mipps, and wasn't it a sorry tale indeed. But of course, now he'd got to go through the whole rigmarole again of rebooting the blasted thing, before he could then load Windows 3.0. Blast ruddy technology, and blast Carrow too, for his insistence on having everything word-processed...in High Gothic...in a particularly horrible gothic font; and it was only going to get worse as Carrow was considering having the Lodge networked so he and his secretary could easily exchange documents.

Faulks didn't know whether to be happy or sad; on entering the Wizarding world, he thought he'd escaped the evils of the technological arms race that the mundane world was increasingly going through. On the other hand, every time he'd visited his family, he'd felt increasingly out of touch, an alien in a once familiar world. His older brother had teased him incessantly about it.

Carrow found the whole divide between the magical and muggle worlds perplexing and ridiculous. He was used to having access to certain technologies, and if they had been invented, he certainly wasn't going to go without. The Lodge had subsequently been wired for electricity, and now boasted a considerable number of the latest gadgets, including numerous computers, and a large television on which Carrow watched the evening news on a daily basis, as he tried to assimilate years of current affairs in a matter of weeks.

Faulks was beginning to miss the relative simplicity of Wizarding life, particularly his small flat off Diagon Alley. Carrow had banged on his door so many times in the early hours of the morning, demanding his attention that the next door neighbours had threatened to formally complain about his pet bear, what with all the growling.

In the end, Faulks had given in to Carrow's demands, and moved into the Potter family seat, the Lodge, taking up residence in a small suite of rooms on the second floor in the east wing; now here he was, surrounded by the sort of luxury that only "old money" could buy.

Rubbing blurry, gritty eyes, Faulks paced back and forth across the antique and slightly thread-bare Persian rugs scattered across the floor of his living room stroke office. At some point one of the Potters must have been rather fashion conscious, and had had the walls of Faulks' rooms covered in hand-painted Chinese silk, something he'd only ever seen in stately homes as a child. The paintings of various Potters through the years did little to detract from the glorious wall coverings. It also contrasted sharply with the furnishings.

Most of the furniture in the Lodge dated to just before the Statute of Secrecy, though some of it was even older and there were a few more modern pieces bought in by more up-to-date members of the Potter family, so most of the furniture in his suite of rooms was Tudor of some vintage, apart from the medieval iron banded chest in which he stored his horde of replacement remotes, and the Georgian desk, in which he hid his supply of blood pops to bribe Natasha with and his stash of Black Russians. It was a pity the blood pops didn't work on the rest of the extremely argumentative vampire clan, meaning he had to resort to other methods to break up their fights...when the technology phobic creatures weren't destroying television remotes of course.

But it was the bed that really got him; the flamboyant Elizabethan four-poster with its heavily embroidered hangings was extremely comfortable, but rather overwhelming for a young man raised in middle-class suburbia. Fortunately the bathroom was comparatively plain, and reassuringly Victorian in its solidity. Faulks had a suspicion that it had originally been a linen closet.

So here he was, stuck in this beautiful house in the middle of nowhere, the closest town being Godric's Hollow, a sleepy middle-class sort of place which gave every appearance of having been by-passed by the industrial revolution, and much of the twentieth century too, with thirteen vampires living in the wine cellar, and of course the resident, and very undomesticated sociopath, all of whom loved fighting, in and out of the sparring ring.

He'd thought his job description was secretary, or maybe personal assistant; instead he'd ended up as a negotiator, a mediator, a shoulder to cry on, the person who found lost things, and made sure everybody had clean sheets, and food, the person who ran errands to the small local shopping centre, the one who fixed things or found somebody who could. Some days he felt more like Carrow's wife.

As he walked past the grandfather clock it chimed the hour and Faulks groaned. Pulling himself together he dragged himself to his bedroom, the home of the ridiculous Elizabethan confection masquerading as a bed, and quickly pulled on his training gear before Carrow could break down his door, all in readiness for his daily three hour training session, something which Carrow insisted was vital. Faulks couldn't quite put into words just how thrilled he was to get beaten up by Carrow's disgusting combat golems, and Carrow himself, and now vampires too, just for variation. As if he didn't have enough on his plate already.

OOOOOO

The massive sword whistled over his head as he ducked and swerved, desperately trying to get close enough to the combat golem to do it some sort of damage. Darting in, Faulks whipped his sword round in a two handed grip in an attempt to hack at the thing's torso, legs, he wasn't picky. Distracted as he was, he didn't see the backswing of the Golem coming, until it pounded in to his side like a freight train. It knocked the wind out of his lungs, leaving him in a gasping wheezing heap on the floor of the training arena.

Strong arms scooped him up, and carried him out of the sunken pit of the arena, depositing him on one of the spectator benches.

As he regained control of his breathing, Faulks gingerly checked for broken ribs. They felt bruised, and he had a suspicion he would have a beautiful medley of colours on his side tomorrow. Nearby giggling caught his attention, and he cautiously opened his eyes, only to find Annie and Caroline, two of the resident vampires, leaning over him grinning, fangs prominent.

"Ten minutes this time." Annie smiled down at him, passing him some bottled water.

"Definitely an improvement," Caroline nodded approvingly, "you'll soon be able to keep up with us."

Faulks grimaced a smile; just what he needed, over enthusiastic vampires. The sound of clashing weapons drew their attention to the training arena where Carrow was sparring with the monstrous training Golem set aside for the man. The fight was nearly impossible to follow, the two combatants a blur of motion as they attempted to overwhelm the other, and in Faulks' opinion rather boring to watch. With a crash Carrow and the Golem locked their practise weapons, each straining against the other, trying to gain the upper hand. With a mighty shove Carrow pushed the Golem away, darting forward and punching its deactivation rune. The Golem slowly slumped into a messy kneeling position on the floor of the training arena with a slow crash, and Carrow banished it back to its allocated space.

As Carrow strode towards him, grinning broadly, still on an adrenaline high, Faulks wondered if now would be a great time to vacate the room.

"Your turn." Carrow cheerfully boomed.

Faulks smiled tightly at the large man, before making his way back into the training arena. There was no point trying to escape; it was probably best to just accept the torment with a smile on his face.

OOOOOO

Faulks desperately fought for his life in a whirl of clashing blades and fierce blows as he tried to keep Carrow from overwhelming him. He might as well have tried turning back the water of the Thames; it would have been just as effective. As he began to tire under the rain of blows his concentration began to waver and so he never saw the pommel of Carrow's training sword heading towards his face, not until it was far too late.

Groaning, Faulks spit out a couple more teeth in to the puddle of frothy blood on the floor in front of him. A tentative probing revealed that yes, Carrow really had managed to knock out all of his upper incisors and his gums were now bleeding profusely due to the abuse they had suffered. Sitting up he glared at the perpetrator who actually had the grace to look embarrassed.

"I am so sorry," Carrow murmured, "I really didn't mean to injure you so..."

He crouched down next to the much smaller man handing him a towel and a bottle of water.

"Since I am responsible for your injury I insist on paying for the replacement teeth...if such dental work is available yet."

Faulks nodded, scowling, "Crowns," he mumbled or rather lisped, before grimacing at the sound of his voice, "I'll go to my dentist, get it sorted, give you the bill," he muttered.

"Miss Granger's parents are practitioners of dental medicine," mused Carrow, "yes, yes, I'll give them a call," he smiled down at Timothy, giving him a friendly pat on the back before striding off towards the showers.

Faulks glared after him in increasing annoyance, rolling his now bruised shoulder, "I've got my own dentist," he slurred loudly at the man's retreating back.

"You did better than last time," a cheerful female voice piped up behind him.

Turning Faulks found Annie and Caroline standing behind him, far too close, fang revealing smiles on their faces.

"Yes, a whole two extra seconds," Caroline smiled up at him.

Faulks smiled tightly at them, dry blood encrusted on his chin. So he'd lasted against Carrow for approximately sixty-three seconds. Well, whoopee.

OOOOOO

Plastic and tubular steel creaked nervously under his considerable weight, as Carrow shifted restlessly in the too small chair, while Dr Granger tutted over the state of Timothy's mouth. Carrow had been very insistent that he should accompany Timothy to all his dental appointments; he felt it important to take responsibility for the injuries he had caused his secretary, not to mention his insatiable curiosity over the hither-to unexplored world of dentistry.

During the first appointment, Dr Granger had given then a stern lecture on the perils of contact sports, and the importance of gum shields and other safety equipment, and was he flossing regularly? When they had returned the second time, Dr Granger had fixed posts into Timothy's upper jaw that would act as anchor points for the new crowns, and gave him a reminder to floss his teeth.

Carrow had had quite the argument with Timothy about the material for these new teeth. Timothy was insistent on having porcelain. Carrow refused to spend good money on something so plebeian, and insisted on the more expensive option of gold. He really wanted to make it up to Timothy for having damaged his teeth, so only gold would do. There were other benefits too, as he had repeatedly explained to the young man; gold would show off a certain wealth, would open doors for him, and make him more acceptable in certain circles. Timothy had eventually given in.

Carrow had visited the Grangers' surgery alone to view the gold crowns before fitting, and had been horrified when he had been presented with the plainest gold teeth he had ever seen. He had expressed his opinion to Dr Granger in fairly strong language.

"Well what were you expecting?" Dr Granger had snapped back, "Diamond settings? Pearl inlay? Engraving, perhaps?"

Carrow had considered these new options being offered him, musing out loud. "I think the diamonds would be far too ostentatious, and pearl inlay is rather noveau-riche. I like the sound of the engraving though," he smiled down at the dentist, "yes, the engraving would be very nice, subtle but decorative."

Dr Granger slapped his forehead with one hand. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? It was always difficult to know how the large man was going to take things at the best of times. He watched nervously, as Carrow quickly and neatly drew out what he thought would be suitable designs. This was not going to end well he could tell, and Carrow was not somebody you wanted cross, not even over relatively minor matters such as the cosmetic appearance of crowns. No, it was going just going to be easier to avoid confronting the lunatic, have some porcelain crowns made up for young Tim and discretely tell him he could come in at a future date to have them installed.

So here they now were, at the ultimately instalment of the much anticipated crowns. Carrow shifted restlessly again, as Dr Granger handed a mirror to Timothy so he could see the final results. He could claim he was genuinely surprised by the look of utter horror and fury which initially crossed Timothy's face, until he managed to wrestle his emotions under control, a virtual shutter coming down, his expression stony and his eyes cold.

OOOOOO

As they entered the entrance hall of the Lodge, Faulks suddenly turned on Carrow, his face a rictus of fury.

"This is the final straw," he hissed at the larger man, "I have put up with a hell of a lot over the past couple of months from you, with little in the way of complaint."

Carrow frowned, bewildered as to what Timothy could possibly be talking about. The smaller man stalked forward until he was inches away from Carrow's broad chest.

"First of all it was all the nagging to get me to move here...and then my clothes _disappeared..._and _you_ insisted on me wearing _these_," he gestured to his leather storm coat and steel toe-capped boots, "Thereby turning me into a mini clone of yourself," he gestured angrily at the huge slab of muscle in front of him, "and then there's the training," he snarled, "I can understand why I need it _but _I'm utterly _sick _of drinking _skelegrow."_ He was starting to pace, a very bad sign. He whirled on Carrow. "I'm actively worried I'm acquiring resistance to the stuff." he hissed wild-eyed. "Have you never heard of health and safety? I also don't appreciate being the one who _always _has to put the Covens' snacks down when they go limp and droopy from constant blood loss. And what about your tendency to use me as bait?" he snarled, "First a nundu, then there was that rogue vampire clan in Romania and that's not forgetting the dragon with brain-rot!"

Carrow finally managed to get a word in. "It is your duty to..."

Faulks snarled, his glare utterly murderous. "There's duty and there's disposable! I'm your employee, _not_ your slave! Which gets me to my main point! These Teeth! YOU...GRAFITTEED...ON...ME. You violated my personal space, my body, in a very fundamental, very visible way! I am NOT your property!"

Faulks paused, breathing heavily. "I haven't had a single day off since I started working for your ungrateful behind, so I am going to have a few days of well earned rest away from this madhouse. Do _not_ try disturbing me." And with that Faulks turned on his heel, stalking away, back straight, storm-coat billowing around him.

Carrow stared at his retreating back. What had _that_ been about?

OOOOOO

When Remus Lupin had accepted the position of DADA teacher at his old school, he could truly say this wasn't what he'd been expecting; the stony faces of the other teachers and the wary and judgemental stares of the students, but worst of all, there was no sign at all of his best friend's son. At the sorting feast, he'd initially looked for Harry among the Gryffindors and failed miserably to find any sign of that messy black hair he remembered so well, just like his father. Puzzled at the lack, he turned to the Ravenclaws. After all both his parents were highly intelligent and talented so it wasn't impossible that their son would end up in Rowena's house. Again he failed. So he had, with some disbelief, looked among the Hufflepuffs. He couldn't really imagine a Potter in the house of the badger but they were known for their hard working spirit, fortitude and loyalty, all wonderful characteristics; but no, no sign of a Potter anywhere. Surely he couldn't be a Slytherin, it just wasn't possible...was it? With some reluctance, he looked towards the Slytherins. There were plenty of children of Death Eaters there; certainly a Nott, Crabbe and Goyle were highly visible. With some relief, he was forced to come to the conclusion that there was no Potter among the snakes. But that raised the question, where in the world was Harry Potter? It was like he had lost a lucky talisman that proved everything was right with the world.

It really hadn't got any better from there. The teachers were grimfaced and evasive when he enquired as to Harry's whereabouts. His constant enquiries had resulted in a rather frightening confrontation in the staff-room involving McGonagall, Sprout and Hooch. He'd asked about his best friend's son once too often, so the lady professors had crowed round his chair in a very threatening manner. McGonagall, the ring leader, had leaned down until they were nearly nose to nose, her eyes cold and wintery.

"The first rule of the staff-room is, you do not talk about Harry Potter!" her expression became even more wintery if that could be possible, "and the second rule of the staff room is you do_ not _talk about Harry Potter!"

She eyed him coldly. "As long as you remember those two simple rules I'm sure you'll do well here." She nodded decisively before stalking off, her colleagues following her. The slightly shaken werewolf looked around the room, taking in the other professors who eyed him with disdain...apart from Snape, who was busily laughing at him from behind his potions journal.

So he'd been living in the muggle world, it being the only place he could find employment, but was he really this out of touch? He'd resorted to reading back-copies of the Daily Prophet, but what he found there made no real sense. Harry had disappeared last summer, only to reappear that same Halloween...and then everything had gone very quiet.

And talking of the Daily Prophet there had also been the increasing number of reports of Death Eaters dying in strange circumstances. There had been the mass deaths at Azkaban, and Quentin Nott, and more recently still, there had been the particularly embarrassing case of Geoffrey Goyle, who died of poisoning while in the throes of passion...in Mistress Rouge's Menagerie of Delights, a particularly seedy brothel in the Knockturn area that catered to a clientele with_ very_ specialist tastes. It almost felt like the last war and people were beginning to sense something was going on. The atmosphere in the castle was increasingly uneasy.

And so, he started his teaching career at Hogwarts very much on the wrong foot.

The first few classes he taught had lulled him in to a false sense of security. The first year students were young and eager, and very excited to be learning magic for the very first time. He had taught them a couple of basic jinxes and a simple shield charm, before allowing them to have a few, very basic, mock duels. The children had left their classes, happily chattering among themselves over their successes and eager for more.

His next class had been with second year Hufflepuffs. In hindsight he should have spotted the warning signs. They were initially nervous when he announced a practical class, shooting wary glances at the duelling pit at the back of the class room, while they huddled right at the front as far away from it as they could get. As he guided them through a review of basic hexes and jinxes and their counters, they very slowly relaxed.

But the penny (or maybe the anvil) really dropped with the third year students. A boggart had moved into the cloak closet in the staff room, and he had seen a wonderful opportunity to give some of his students a little bit of first-hand experience dealing with a common dark household pest that was comparatively easy to do deal with. He felt it would certainly be much more exciting than sitting in a classroom.

The third year Ravenclaws had frozen when he had cheerfully told them, "Please put your books away, and take your wands out class. Today will be a practical lesson."

They had nervously complied. Seeing everyone was ready, he led them to the staffroom which the children had reluctantly entered, huddling together in a wide eyed group, wands at the ready, as they took in the slightly shabby, but cozy interior of the professors' bolt hole. Only one chair, near the fireplace, was occupied. Severus Snape was enjoying some student free time with a potions periodical. Peering over the top of his journal, he smirked at the fearful children, and practically grinned at Lupin, a look of gleeful anticipation in his eyes. Lupin returned the smile nervously; considering his past history with the potions professor, he doubted the man was trying to be friendly and wanting to bury the hatchet with him.

Pulling himself together, he turned back to his charges. "Right class," he smiled at the suspicious students, "gather round."

The huddle of children shuffled over eyeing the quaking cloak closet warily.

"Do we have to...kill it?" a small, tentative voice spoke up.

OOOOOO

The trembling student faced the cloak closet with a look of supreme determination on his face, wand clasped tightly in his hand.

"Ready?" asked a slightly shaken Lupin. The student merely nodded, steeling himself for whatever horror might slink out of the dark recesses of the cupboard before him. The door slowly creaked open, and a long and hairy leg eased its way out of the small space, as a fully grown acromantula forced its bulk through the slight opening. The boy frowned in concentration waiting for his moment, "_Ridikulus_!" he cried flourishing his wand. The head of the horror slipped free of its body in a rush of gore and the massive carcass slumped to the floor in a puddle of ichor. The boy grinned, happy with the results while his class mates chortled in the background.

Lupin, watching from the side-lines, blanched at the gory sight; and this was only the third student. The previous two had had some sort of monstrous man with an insane grin. For the life of him, Lupin couldn't think why he looked so familiar, and frankly the visual effects the children had chosen were rather disturbing. Beheadings, the man's body exploding in a shower of gore, impalements; he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. It wasn't the gruesome effects precisely, but rather the childrens' tender age, and their cynical laughter. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

When the third-to-last student stepped forward, Lupin was praying frantically, _please, please be something normal, no gore, no gore_. The tiny girl, the smallest child in the class, looked as if a strong wind would blow her away.

His hopes were shattered when the metal, skull encrusted monster he had witnessed twice before impossibly climbed out of the tiny cloak closet. Its baleful red glare took in the tiny child, as it stepped forward, its strange limbs whirring painfully with each step, one gore slicked gauntlet reached out to the girl, blood dripping sluggishly from its fingers.

The girl became increasingly wild-eyed, her body trembling, and to Lupin's increasing alarm, she began to froth at the mouth. With an unearthly shriek, she threw herself at the apparition, rending it with teeth and nails, her wand lying forgotten on the floor some feet away. The boggart itself was considerably smaller and definitely weaker than the terrifying apparition it projected that was its one and only defence mechanism. Against a small teenage girl driven to a blood-crazed frenzy, it didn't really stand much of a chance.

The class watched in fascination, as the girl literally pulled the boggart apart, splattering her surroundings with thick, goopey ichor, beating the remains with one torn and tattered limb. Her shrieks of rage slowly turned to huffing bellows as she ran out of steam, drool dribbling down her chin, eyes glassy and staring.

Her friends carefully sidled forward and, encouraged by the fact she didn't attack them, they gently pried the unrecognisable remains from her hands.

"There, there, it's dead now, Su-Su." one said in an overly bright voice, patting her gore slicked hand comfortingly.

"Why don't we go to Madam Pomfrey now?" the other one said gently, trying to lead Su-Li away to the Infirmary.

Snape picked this moment to glide forward, a vial of something in one hand, "Miss Li, I think it would be an excellent idea, if you would take this calming draft, after your...sterling performance with the boggart." The severe man was surprisingly gentle as he handed over the little vial to the still distressed student. He turned to the girl's friends. "If you would escort Miss Li to the Infirmary..." The two girls nodded solemnly, before gently, but firmly, leading away the smaller student.

Lupin had watched all this in a horrified daze. "Ah right...class dismissed...and three feet on boggarts, their habits, and how to counter them...due in next class, please, no excuses!"

The children all piled out the door as quickly as they could, determined to vacate the scene of the grizzly boggart corpse, leaving behind a bewildered and slightly shaken professor.

Lupin turned to Snape. "What was that all about?" he gasped. Snape raise an eyebrow questioningly.

"Miss Li," Lupin clarified, "I've never seen the like." his face furrowed in worry.

"Ah yes," Snape smirked at him, "our resident berserker. Yes, the previous incumbent was very impressed with her natural talent, and did his best to nurture it."

"What? Gilderoy Lockhart?" Lupin asked incredulously.

Snape snorted at the idea. "No, Allesandor Carrow. He took over when Lockhart...resigned." He looked speculatively at the gooey mess that was all that remained of the boggart. "I have a feeling that Mr Carrow will probably try to employ Miss Li straight out of school."

"Alessandor Carrow? Who's that?" The name sounded vaguely familiar to Lupin. "He's not related to Amycus and Alecto is he?" He shuddered at the thought of another one of _them_ running around.

Snape shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of, but you be the judge. After all, you have already seen him." He smirked at the other man.

Lupin shrugged, puzzled.

"The boggart," Snape grinned, "some of them were a remarkable likeness. I swear the man doesn't even have to be present to cause utter mayhem. Well I must be off. Can't have the little hellions destroying the potions lab, can we?"

Snape stalked away in an impressive billow of black robes, leaving behind a bewildered and unsettled Lupin. The werewolf gazed down at the mess on the floor. Well, that was his lesson plans for the rest of the week completely messed up.

OOOOOO

It was like a fog horn in training, Faulks finally decided, as a small child erupted into wails, just feet away from him. His carefully honed reflexes were working overtime today. Yet again, he barely managed to stop reaching for weapons that weren't there, instead gripping the handle of the shopping trolley even tighter, the leather of his gloves creaking with the strain. The mother of the child scowled horribly at him, for daring to object to her adorable little noise generator, before storming down the rest of the cereal aisle, head held high.

Faulks retreated even further behind his stony mask, superb for dealing with over exuberant space-marines and irritating vampires, but not for very urban and very ordinary supermarkets full of equally urban and ordinary people. Mother dearest's wonderful idea of getting him out of the house to stop him brooding was busily back-firing. Faulks was bored rigid, but at the same time dangerously on edge, nerves jangling, alert for any danger, all in all a very dangerous combination not ideal for pushing a shopping trolley, as he trailed around after his mother. He was very much of the opinion that he currently looked like a complete idiot clad, as he was in Carrow approved horrors. Heavily tailored leather storm coats with miles of braiding and brass skull decorated buttons on the front did not really go with the orange plastic aesthetics of the local supermarket. The engraved skulls and acanthus leaves on the steel toes of his boots weren't helping things either.

"Keep up Timothy." His mother's voice cut through his frustrated thoughts. With an angry huff, he pushed the packed trolley after her. Having spent so much of the last decade in the Wizarding World, he hadn't realised before just how odd supermarkets were. For instance, mince pack sizes; they were either big enough for two portions or four, so what if you needed to feed three people? Did you end up buying two packs and have half of one left over or did you buy a large pack and only use three quarters? He tried explaining it to his mother very carefully, but she seemed to miss the point entirely, so as they turned into "Soup & Tinned Veg" he pointed out the sheer ridiculousness of six different types of baked beans, all of them with very similar labels. What was all that about? Did they truly think people were stupid enough that they could be tricked into picking up the wrong brand of beans by mistakes? Maybe it was some sort of conspiracy...mind control and manipulation implemented through tinned comestibles.

"Don't be ridiculous, Timothy!" was mother's only response,

And then he spotted the security guard for the third time. The man was lurking, in what he obviously thought was a nonchalant manner by a display of mushy peas with his radio at the ready. Faulks carefully analysed the man. Late forties, early fifties, judging by his greying, receding hair, a big man run slightly to seed, not up to a very long chase, possibly ex-police, probably retired, definitely bored out of his skull.

The man sauntered off and left towards "spreads & butter" trying to look casual, but Faulks knew his game. If he doubled back, slipped through "pasta & rice", then nipped across into "household detergents", he could come up behind the man and give him the old one two...well, make him jump any way. Seeing his chance, he grabbed his mother's elbow, as she came back with an armload of soup, and led her off, ignoring her protests, on a convoluted security guard dodging tour of the supermarket.

Peering round a display of "magic" dusters in "household cleaners", to his utter delight, they were in luck. Releasing the protesting Mrs Faulks, he sauntered forward, gently bumping the shopping-trolley into the security guard. So intent was he on watching for the scrawny dodgy man in the weird leather coat, that he jumped a mile, yelping in shock and frantically juggling his radio, trying not to drop the expensive piece of electronics. He whirled on the spot, furious, only to come face to face with a smirking Faulks who was leaning on the handle of the shopping trolley.

"Hi," purred Timothy as the security guard's face paled, turned red and finally settled on blotchy grey. "I couldn't help but notice," Timothy continued, "that you're rather wasted on a supermarket." He pulled one of his business cards out of a pocket, handing it to the unnerved security guard, who stared at it warily. "My employer is always on the look-out for reliable security staff. Give me a call, and I'll set you up with an interview." Pushing the shopping-trolley away, Faulks sauntered past the bewildered security guard, giving him a quick grin, Mrs Faulks trying to catch up with her recalcitrant son's long stride.

"_Really,_ Timothy!" Mrs Faulks started. "How _could_ you do something so childish, and in _public_ too. I've never been so _embarrassed _in my life..."

The security guard watched them walk away, the lady's rant fading with distance, before looking at the business card once again. The thick piece of creamy parchment was simply adorned, a name, Timothy Faulks, a phone number, and an image of a double headed eagle, wings outstretched, one head staring out at him, the other blind.

OOOOOO

William Faulks sighed heavily as he finished the paperwork he'd brought home from the office; the cause for his concern could be clearly seen through the window, yet again waving that ridiculous sword around. Timothy, his younger son, the beloved eccentric and almost black sheep of the family had been a cause for concern for many years, ever since he'd received that letter from that Scottish school, Hogwarts. It was concerning enough that the poor boy was apparently a wizard, the family had always produced steadily middle-class types, doctors, accountants, solicitors, even the odd military type, but what precisely did a wizard do?

When Timothy left Hogwarts with, apparently, glowing qualifications the boy had done his best to get a job in government...only to collide with a magical brick wall of prejudice. Being the first wizard in his family had really not helped his political career, being far more talented that most of his pure-blood peer group had only further compounded the problem leaving the poor lad with no choice but to take a job cleaning toilets at the Ministry and hope that someone spotted him. The family had been on the point of taking intervening action when Timothy had finally landed a plum job, secretary to one of the newest members of the Wizengamot, one Allesandor Carrow...and then four months later he storms home in a furious temper at his employer...oddly changed and not for the better...the dreadful gold teeth, the dark and aggressive wardrobe, the jumpiness, the obsessive exercise, the smoking, the insomnia, the signs of paranoia, the antisocial behaviour, the lack of appetite...where did it end? More than ever William Faulks regretted allowing his little boy to go to that strange Scottish school. Really, could it get any worse? Hearing the doorbell chime he pulled himself to his feet and went to answer it puzzled, they weren't expecting any parcels at the moment. Opening the door he came face to chest with a veritable wall of black braid and leather, brass skull buttons and extreme tailoring. His eyes slowly drifted upward... and the abominable apparition smiled down at him like a tiger in a deer enclosure.

OOOOOO

The silence stretched on, as Timothy sat on the sofa arms folded, glaring poisonously at his employer. Carrow himself seemed unperturbed with his secretary's hostility, and was experimenting with dunking ginger biscuits in his tea. William fidgeted, uncomfortable in his own living room, feeling like a spare part to all the subtle unspoken communication between the two dark and brooding figures that he was not initiated in. He was sure he'd met divorcing couples worse than this, but he was having trouble remembering when.

Timothy narrowed his eyes viciously at the hulking figure of Carrow. "Well?" he snapped.

Carrow's head jerked up mid-chew, eyes wide and innocent, a distinctly ridiculous expression on such a blatantly violent man. Timothy sneered, the contentious gold teeth glittering dangerously in the light filtering in through the net curtains.

"Right!" William finally said, his voice overly cheerful and forced in the oppressive silence, his smile a humourless parody. "I'll leave you to your discussion then," before practically sprinting from the room.

"Do you understand now?" Timothy practically hissed, "Or are you still wallowing in denial?"

Carrow set his teacup down, leaning back in the protesting chair, face unreadable.

"After you left, the young ladies came to your defence. They were extremely...angry and felt that I had wronged you greatly," the large man sighed wrestling with foreign concepts and feelings, "Annie asked me how would I feel if someone were to...deface my armour," he stared up at the ceiling sighing again, "my armour is a holy relic that I am merely the current guardian of...and I don't think your teeth are." He paused again, thinking hard, "I think what Annie was trying to convey was the sense of violation...of desecration almost...was what you experienced...they are teeth..." he trailed off perplexed by the level of upset a simple act of kindness had managed to cause.

Leaning forward in the protesting chair he started intently at his secretary, "Timothy, you work for me, therefore it is my responsibility to look after you, to provide you with the necessities of life... so _you_ can concentrate fully on doing your duty..."

Timothy sighed, exasperated, head in his hands, as Carrow really got into his stride on his lecture on duty and what they should expect from one another.

"You really don't understand why I'm upset do you?" he snarled gate-crashing Carrow's rant. The large man stared back at him, puzzlement clearly visible in his unnaturally green eyes.

"Do you know what I mean by personal space?" Timothy asked.

Carrow narrowed his eyes, suspicious and unsure as to where this was going to go, "no," he finally murmured shaking his head slightly.

"Well let me demonstrate to you," Timothy smirked at the increasingly wary manner in which Carrow watched him, as he levered himself up from the sofa and sauntered round the coffee table.

Carrow eyed him carefully, obviously expecting something violent from his secretary. Timothy smiled sweetly at him, before leaning forward and tweaking the other man's nose. Jerking in surprise, Carrow nearly broke the back off the poor abused chair, his hand flying protectively to his face, a growl escaping him.

"And that," Timothy said patronisingly, "is personal space...and now for a smoke." And with that he left the room, Carrow watching his retreating back his face unreadable

OOOOOO

"I need you," the unnaturally deep voice murmured by his ear wrenching Timothy from his contemplation of the family garden. Startled, he turned coming almost nose to nose with Carrow.

"I am...pleased with your progress as my apprentice so far." Carrow continued, "You have the potential to do...great things." The large man straightened. "I do not want to lose you." he continued almost...pleading Timothy felt.

"Apprentice?" Timothy asked, one eyebrow raised suspiciously. "I was very much under the impression that I was your secretary."

Carrow smirked down at him as he took a drag from the black cigarette, its gold filter glinting in the watery sunlight. "Apprentice for what?" Timothy hissed, a sudden chilly suspicion building in his stomach. He had a very horrible feeling about this as a lot of odd things Carrow insisted he do started to make a strange and uncomfortable sense.

"As an Inquisitor, of course." Carrow stared down at him, eyes intense.

"Mr Carrow..." Faulks began squeezing his eyes shut, disbelieving what he was hearing, "this is the twentieth century. I can understand that in the 41st Millennium the ...Inquisition was vital to safeguard humanity, just as the Adeptus Astartes, Imperial Guard, and all the other Imperial organisation you have told me about...but now? We don't have the same, don't face the same dangers at all." He took another drag of the cigarette, watching Carrow with concern. The rate the big man was going, he was going to draw the attention of large and dangerous organisations to himself and then what...Carrow was formidable but...

There was a dangerous glint in Carrow's eyes. "The Inquisition is always needed," he snarled, "our work is never done. If there isn't a threat from an outside force then there is the threat from within, of the mutant, the heretic, those tainted by the ruinous powers...it never ends..."

He pointed at Faulks with one large finger, the ruby eyes of the ugly skull ring glinting in the autumnal sunlight, "...and you, boy, have the mentality, the potential to join our ranks."

Faulks stared at him, mouth hanging open, cigarette drooping from his fingers.

"Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a petty bureacrat?" Carrow demanded. "Or a politician even." he hissed as if the word itself was dirty. "I won't be kind, you will hate me, and the training itself...it will...change you."

Faulks shut his mouth with a snap; the man had a point. If he hadn't had the good fortune to be offered the position of secretary to Carrow, he would have been condemned to a lifetime of cleaning pure-blood faeces off toilet bowls, or if he was very lucky, an extremely low-level position as a filing clerk maybe; that is if he didn't try his luck in the non-magical world. So Carrow was a dangerous maniac with an agenda, life was definitely never dull around the man, and maybe he could stop the daft lump ending up in an early grave by running interference and damage control between him and the rest of the human race...and the things he could learn...

"I accept," Faulks murmured, looking up into Carrow's intense stare.

Carrow's face broke into a slow predatory smile, as he held out one massive hand for Faulks to shake. "Welcome to the Inquisition, Timothy."

OOOOOO

"There will be conditions of course." Timothy snapped as they returned to the living room. "Annie and I practically run the Lodge alone, and though the house-elves have made a definite difference, they aren't enough. That house needs proper domestic staff," he stated poking Carrow in the chest in time to his words, "and grounds people," he added, "That garden is an utter disgrace."

"But you will come back," Carrow asked hopefully, "or I'll have to kidnap you." He grinned boyishly. Timothy snorted at him, un-amused.

"Good, good," Carrow virtually bounced on his toes, putting the ceiling in danger, "now that is dealt with, I have something I wish to have your opinion on," he pulled a jam-jar out of his pocket. Timothy rolled his eyes at the large man's quick turn about in mood.

He peered at the proffered jam-jar. "Ah, a particularly exciting jam-jar. I do believe that's the one the lime marmalade comes in." Carrow titled his head, his lips curling sarcastically.

Timothy smirked at him before taking a closer looks at the contents of the jar. Inside sat a particularly ugly beetle, crawling around the bottom in circles, occasionally taking flight pinging off the sides of the jar. Giving Carrow an odd look, he pulled his wand out, and cast a few basic detection charms on the incarcerated creature. The results were extremely interesting.

Faulks leaned back in his seat. "This is either a transfigured person, or an animagus, from the amount of magic it's giving off."

Carrow nodded in agreement. "It's why I caught the wretched creature. It felt...wrong, far too large an aura for a simple beetle. Now all we need to know is who?"

Timothy was carefully examining the beetle, fascinated at the textures on its wing casing. "There is a record of all registered animagi available at the Ministry, but of course that only tells you about those who've come forward to register...hang on..." he frowned. Why did the odd discolouration around the little creature's eyes looks so familiar, and then it hit him. Slamming the jar down much to the beetle's distress, Faulks leapt up and sprinted out of the room. William Faulks poked his head around the door, worried as to what was occurring; the two men exchanged looks, before Carrow shrugged his shoulders, as puzzled as the elder Faulks. Timothy stormed back into the room, nearly running his own father over, his prize triumphantly held in one hand. Folding open the morning's Daily Prophet to the article "Talented Reporter Missing". Timothy slammed it down on the coffee table in front of Carrow. Grabbing the jar, he thrust it into Carrow's hands. "Compare the markings around its eyes to Skeeter's glasses," he said breathlessly, his grin excited.

Carrow narrowed his eyes, staring intently at the beetle cowering on the bottom of the jar, before looking equally intently at the picture in the paper. The woman's ugly glasses were highly distinctive. A smile slowly crept across his face. It made a lot of sense; a gossip rag journalist of the absolute worst sort, who could turn into a beetle, enabling her to get access to all sorts of places and information that nobody in their right mind would give her. Oh how he could use this, what a wonderful gift to fall into his lap. He turned to Timothy, his smile utterly feral. "I think you're onto something there." Faulks grinned back at him, his smile equally dangerous, the engraved skulls in their little gothic arches on his gold teeth glinting in the light.

OOOOOO

Dumbledore pensively sipped his pumpkin juice, watching the students chatter among themselves, as they ate dinner after another long day of learning. The ceiling above reflected the clear starlit sky outside; it was going to be a frosty night, a sure sign winter was on its way. His contemplation of the Milky Way was disturbed by a frantic rustling coming from the owl entrances up near the eaves. As he gazed upwards, puzzled, a barn owl popped out of one of the dedicated arches, like a cork from a bottle, in a small shower of feathers. The distressed owl scrambled through the air towards the high table in an undignified way, before practically throwing an envelope at Dumbledore. Unthinking, he caught it before it could land in his beef hotpot...and then promptly dropped it in shock.

The letter _pulsed _with magic, in fact, so much so, it virtually glowed. On the front, in a powerful hand was simply written _"Albus Dumbledore"_. The intent behind the writing was so clear, fizzed with through every line, surged through every curve of the dynamic hand writing, that Dumbledore had a feeling that the letter, given half a chance, could have made its way to him all on its own, so strong, so pure was the purpose with which his name had been written.

Grabbing a napkin, he tentatively picked up the unnerving object, and virtually sprinted from the hall, ignoring the shocked and gaping teaching staff and the whispering students.

OOOOOO

The letter lay on his desk like an unexploded bomb, pulsing quietly to itself. Dumbledore combed his fingers through his beard soothingly, trying to think who could possibly be the sender of this...correspondence. Definitely not one of his usual contacts, he'd never seen the highly distinctive handwriting before...so who had he written to recently that was new? He'd written to Carrow's mystery pen-pal several times but never received a response...he looked at the letter sharply. Could the mystery individual have finally written back? It really was the only thing he could think of. Tentatively, he reached for the letter, only for his actions to be interrupted by a very excited Fawkes who landed heavily on the letter, frantically rubbing himself against it, wings spread, basking in the aura that the paper radiated and even wriggling on to his back, as if the letter were a magical dust bath. After a little fight, Dumbledore managed to extract his post from under the over-excited phoenix. Fawkes stared at him despondently, chirping unhappily, wings drooping; sidling closer the large bird pinned his familiar with a hopeful look.

"Maybe we can come to some sort of compromise?" Dumbledore murmured to his familiar with a small smile. Fawkes instantly brightened up, giving a happy chirp.

And so Dumbledore finally managed to read his letter, while Fawkes happily basked on the opened out envelope. And what a frustrating letter it was too, raising far more questions than it answered. The sender was extremely polite, but rather miserly when it came to giving out personal information.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair deep in thought staring unseeingly at Fawkes snoozing happily, still spread out on top of the envelope. Who was this incredibly powerful wizard who Carrow seemed to already know? And why wasn't he already a major player in the Wizarding World?


	4. Chapter 4

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Author's Note

And yet again I am writing a warning about potentially upsetting content.

The first scene contains torture. I have attempted to keep it as gore-less and ungraphic as possible, but it is still torture. Carrow being what he is I was unable to avoid the subject since it had been mentioned or even described in quiet a number of WH40K Black Library novels that I have read.

I want to make it clear that I am very much of the opinion that torture is both evil and a fruitless waste of time.

* * *

Chapter 4

One...two...three...four...five...six, and then the wall again; Rita Skeeter turned, and shuffled back across the cell she had found herself in some...several...well, she wasn't exactly sure when she'd arrived precisely, and she certainly didn't know how long had passed since then. The constant artificial lighting in the windowless room was inescapable, setting her nerves on edge, robbing her of sleep, and making her feel washed out and gritty around the edges. She spent much of her time wrapped in the thin blanket on the narrow bench that ran one side of the cell, drifting in and out of a light doze, never quite managing to rest properly. Maybe there was something in her porridge, her paranoid mind would whisper to her, something in the air, maybe the blanket was soaked with it, rubbing it into her skin?

She moved back again, ineffectually tugging down the disgusting sack she had been left with to wear. Shapeless and brown, it barely covered her knees, making her feel very vulnerable due to her complete lack of underwear. A blank stare at the small and disgusting chemical loo in one corner, and back she came like some sort of caged animal. She'd initially tried banging on the door, shouting threats, pleading even, but nobody ever came. Nor could she hear anything from outside. She'd tried turning into her beetle form, only to find to her utter distress she was completely unable to do so. Had somebody robbed her completely of her magic? Trapped within these plain grey walls, she was completely helpless, missing a vital part of herself. She'd screamed and cried, and battered her hands bloody on the walls, before descending into an inescapable grey monotony. Everything that made her _her _was slowly being stripped away.

She'd eventually given up all attempts at escape, her throat sore and her hands bloody. Nobody was coming; she'd been forgotten, lost in this little room. Chewing her already injured fingers, she paced back to the door, touching it as if in the hope this time it would swing open at the touch of her fingers. The door was solid, its grey bulk unmoving, so slowly she shuffled round and moved back to the opposite wall. Resting her forehead against the featureless concrete surface, she tried to ignore the tinny whistling in her ears, a sound she was definite wasn't there, but couldn't quite get rid of.

A quiet but definite "snick" came from behind her, followed by a movement of air. _Must be feeding time at the zoo_ she thought with a giggle she tried desperately to swallow down. She slowly turned around, fully expecting to see one of the loathsome skeletal figures entering with her daily rations. The unemotional automatons gave her the creeps with their poorly disguised human bones and empty eye sockets.

Her eyes widened in shock, as instead stood an abnormally tall figure swathed in black robes, face shadowed by a deep cowl. From its belt hung three skulls, bound in chains, decorated, hints of gilding glinting in the constant light of the cell, rattling slightly with every movement of the forbidding figure.

There must have been something in the food, nothing natural got that large. She slid down the wall eyes wide, face slack, hunching up as small as possible, arms wrapped protectively around her legs, trying to be as small a target as possible. Who knew what it wanted with her? The dark figure loomed over her, assessing her possibly, before reaching down. Skeeter desperately scrambled away, but the large merciless figure was hardly troubled by her efforts and dragged her away oblivious to her struggles.

The figure strode down a featureless corridor and into another room. Forcing her on to a metal table, it proceeded to strap her down. She fought back as best she could, cried and screamed and pleaded, but the anonymous being was unmoved and unchanging in its course of action. Like an avalanche, it carried on, ignoring her utterly...never making so much as a sound.

Unable to do anything but stare at the ceiling whimpering, Skeeter could hear small noises as of something metallic moving against something else metallic. The giant moved back into her field of vision holding up what looked like a thin hat pin, the decorative knob on the end, held between finger and thumb, exquisitely carved in the form of a figure in the throes of untold agony. The needle started to descend towards her vulnerable body and Skeeter began to shake uncontrollably, cold sweat beading on her skin, tears unnoticed streaming from her eyes as the pain began.

OOOOOO

Blinking she opened her eyes, gummy from crying and sleep. The familiar grey wall stared back, the hateful chemical loo squatting in the corner. Skeeter shakily raised herself on arms as weak and insubstantial as balloons of water, tearful to be away from the needle wielding monster. She'd once been held under the cruciatus curse during a nasty run-in with one of the darker denizens of Knockturn's shadier crowd. This was so much worse, felt so much more personal. Wearily wrapping the blanket around her shoulders she huddled in the corner...waiting...waiting in the grey monotony of the little room.

OOOOOO

Blinking weakly, Skeeter frowned in consternation. She was lying on something soft, while something heavy and thick covered her, and above all she felt clean, she couldn't remember the last time she felt clean. Slowly, tremulously, she cracked her eyes open further, puzzled as to what she was seeing. A bed canopy hung above, cheerily painted with acanthus leaves and putti romping playfully with birds. She must have died and this was the afterlife, or maybe she was still alive but delirious and hallucinating, stuck in that oppressive little grey cell. There was no way she could have imagined anything quite that appalling. Closing her eyes, she drifted back to sleep.

OOOOOO

Through her current fuzzy state, she stared down at her empty cup, wondering when the current bizarre turn her life was taking would end. Across from her sat Timothy Faulks, the monster's secretary, or personal assistant, she wasn't sure which, quietly scraping butter onto toast, while at the far end of the table sat the monster himself, growling and muttering evilly at a bowl of porridge. Occasionally the large man would send vicious green-eyed glares down the table; whether they were aimed at her or Faulks, she was having problems telling. Faulks seemed to be completely ignoring the man.

The room itself was really not helping the situation either; it appeared to be architecturally Norman for the most part, with geometrically carved pillars, all of which were still painted in the vivid colours the original inhabitants of the building adored. Combined with art-deco furniture, kilim rugs on the medieval tiled floor, and a violently chinoiserie cast-iron fire place, the room had...character. Truly, it was like that horribly embarrassing uncle she only saw once a year at Christmas. Sometime in the 1500s, somebody had punched an arch through into an extension that was long gone, replaced with an, at the time, extremely fashionable orangery. Beyond was visible an ornamental garden with its parterres. The garden had a raw feel to it, as if it had been uncared for, for a long time, and had only recently received a brutal clearing. Rita watched in fascination as a paunchy middle-aged man drove past on a peculiar little vehicle, obviously muggle in origin, along one of the broad gravel paths, a trailer of cuttings bouncing along behind it.

"More tea, Miss Skeeter?" Faulks asked, breaking her reverie. She looked back at the young man across from her with his tight smile and scarred cheeks, holding out the silver teapot and strainer. Slightly dazed, she smiled and nodded, pushing her teacup forward. Faulks carefully refilled her cup, adding a little milk, before handing it back all the while giving her an assessing look.

"You should try to eat a little more," Faulks continued, offering her the toast rack, "after all you've had quite the shock, after _someone _so rudely stuck pins in you." He shot a filthy glare down the table at his giant employer, who growled back like an angry bull rhino. "You need to build your health back up."

Taking a piece of toast, Rita tentatively nibbled at it, despite the lack of appetite she was currently experiencing.

"So...now we get onto why you are here, Miss Skeeter." Faulks continued. Rita froze, the piece of toast slipping from her fingers with a plunk on to the bone china plate. She desperately wished her head wasn't quite so fuzzy, seemingly stuffed with cotton wool. Why had they kidnapped her? Well that was a possibly stupid question; illegal animagus, well know gossip hound, it stunk of blackmail to her.

"We have information we need a qualified and experienced journalist to...disseminate to the masses in the most scandalous manner possible," Faulks smirked, "and we've got enough of this information to potentially bring down the Wizengamot."

Rita's reporter senses started tingling overtime. Carrow had a bit of a reputation at the Ministry for knowing far more than he ought to about any given issue within the Magical government. She glanced at the large and threatening man at the other end of the table, watching them with narrowed eyes, expression belligerent.

"How about a little taster?" Faulks murmured with a predatory smile. Rita's head snapped round. Fuzzy headed or not, the idea of illicit material freely given would always get her attention. Faulks pushed an unassuming document across the table towards her, watching the dazed woman carefully. Maybe he had fed her too many calming drafts after all.

Rita carefully looked at the land ownership document, frowning through the fuzzy calm which seemed to cloak her mind. The document looked legal enough, between a Geoffrey Goyle and a Lucretia Mipps. It looked all in order, completely legal. She looked up at Faulks puzzled.

"Observe," he said with a small smile, his wand appearing in his hand with a flick of his wrist, murmuring a small incantation over the document designed to confirm the authenticity of such objects. The signature of Lucretia Mipps flared a muddy red, while that of Gregory Goyle glowed a clear leaf green.

Rita stared open mouthed. Miss Mipps' signature was a forgery, meaning that there was something rather dodgy about the sale of the Mipps family farm. But how did this get past the eagle eyes of the Departments for Lands and Properties, who had a reputation for being extremely pernickety? Something at the Ministry was extremely rotten. Rita gazed down at the document as if it held the secrets of the universe. Where could this lead, and were there more dodgy dealings going on at the Ministry? Everybody knew that there was a certain level of corruption within Fudge's administration, but how deep did the sewage really go? The sound of a clearing throat broke her racing thoughts, startling her despite the fuzzy warmth her mind was currently basking in.

"Interested, hmmm?" Faulks murmured with a small smile. "There's plenty more where that came from, all of it legit and, if you decide to pursue this, you will, of course, be financially rewarded for your efforts." He smiled tightly at the devious woman. She may be currently hurting, but Faulks was under no illusion as to how dangerous she was with a quill in her hand.

"But of course you do have quite the ...reputation for biting the hand that feeds you, as it were." Faulks was pleased to see the slightly manic gleam in Skeeter's eyes dull a fraction at his words. "So...my employer and I require insurance," he pulled another document from his folder, "as to your good behaviour." He placed the contract down in front of the maverick journalist, following it with a blood quill. "Sign on the line, Miss Skeeter." he said, with a tight smile.

Rita examined the contract carefully, looking for the catch, trying to squint past the fog that clouded her thoughts. It all looked pretty water tight, she certainly wouldn't be able to reveal the involvement of Mr Carrow; a pity really, it would make for a juicy story. On the other hand, the glorious can of worms, the incredible skeletons in the closet she would be able to reveal. Even drugged up to the eyeballs with calming drafts, her smile was devious as she picked up the blood quill and signed in a big looping flourish.

OOOOOO

"Congratulations" a deep growl rumbled. Faulks jumped slightly jerked from his musings of the now signed contract, nearly spilling his tea. He turned questioningly to the looming figure of Carrow.

"Your very first agent," Carrow rumbled with a small smile, "you always remember your first one." he continued, with a note of nostalgia.

Faulks considered his employer a moment, the scarred, brutal powerhouse who had for the Wizarding World only recently been an innocent little boy.

"Why?" he asked.

Carrow tilted his head, "Why what?" he enquired mildly puzzled.

Faulks contemplated the empty chair that Rita Skeeter had only recently occupied. "Why the torture?" he clarified. "It doesn't strike me as..." he paused, trying to choose his words carefully "...something that you would normally be willingly to do."

Carrow's face was a stony mask as he gazed to the garden beyond, a smudge of dark smoke rising into the grey autumn sky, where the gardeners were now having a small bonfire of garden waste.

"It is standard Inquisitorial procedure to...purify with pain those guilty of heresy, of deviance from accepted thought, of taint, of...mutation." Carrow stared at Faulks his green eyes frightening in their intensity. "Miss Skeeter is guilty of corrupting the perfection of the human form..._debasing_ herself _willingly_, becoming less than human...and a _beetle_ of all things!" He calmed his breathing down with a massive effort of will. "I have been extremely lenient with the woman, as she is just too useful to be killed outright."

Timothy carefully kept his mask in place, not daring to let it slip for a moment, lest Carrow pick up on the slightest hesitance in his thoughts.

"But you are not...comfortable with it, the torture...you do it more because it is expected of you...maybe even out of habit..."

Surging up from his seat at the breakfast table, Carrow began to pace deep in thought, wrestling with his loathing of physical torture. Where was the honour, the service to humanity, in inflicting pain on a strapped down captive, no matter how loathsome their crimes? Nowhere! If Skeeter had run at him screaming, while waving a limp stick of celery, he would quite happily kill the woman; her poor choice of armament would be her problem, not his. But...if the causing of pain wasn't expected of him, in fact could draw unwanted attention to him, and this was something he wished to avoid for as long as possible, so he could further his plans to the Glory of the Emperor, well...

He stalked over to Timothy, as his young apprentice gazed out pensively at the newly cleared garden. The young man turned, careful not to show any signs of surprise, at the sound of soft bellows like breathing from behind him. Turning his gaze upwards, he lifted an eyebrow enquiringly.

"How is the use of purifying pain seen generally in this...age?" Carrow enquired.

Timothy blinked, not quite what he expected, but Carrow was a master of surprise. "Torture of any kind has been completely illegal in this country for hundreds of years, there's even an international treaty, the Geneva Convention that outlaws such...treatment of our fellow man. It is generally looked on as being uncivilised." Timothy finished, carefully watching Carrow's reaction. The large man looked thoughtful, troubled even, which was not necessarily a good thing. He idly wondered if all this staring upwards was going to give him arthritis of the neck at an early age.

"I'm concerned, too," he continued laying a hand gently on Carrow's arm, "that you are going to find yourself in trouble of such vast proportions, that even you will have difficulties finding your way out of it."

Carrow didn't answer, startled by the display of affection towards him, the silence dragging painfully on, until he sighed deeply. He dug into the deep pockets of his plain house robes, pulling out the slim case that held the one and only gift he had received from his mentor, his precious needles. He handed them to Timothy.

"Put them somewhere safe for me." he said tightly before stepping around the smaller man, through the orangery and out into the garden beyond. The crisp autumn air was refreshing, the fallen leaves trying to pile into golden drifts in odd corners. Carrow looked around the large walled garden, a space he hadn't been able to see the point of spending money on, until Timothy had persuaded him, and the lad was right. It was pleasant, soothing even, with its geometric planting and its ordered design. He strolled along the gravel paths for a while, wondering all the time why, when he'd just come to a decision which went counter to Imperial doctrine, when his mind was rebelling at his near heresy, did he feel as if a large weight had been removed from his shoulders.

OOOOOO

Severus Snape opened the special addition of the Daily Prophet with a satisfying crack, only to close it again sharply, when his eyes took in the contents, rather more than he ever wanted to know about Geoffrey Goyle's _special_ relationship with Fifi the labradoodle. How in Merlin's name had Skeeter managed to get such filth published in a family paper? The mind boggled.

The, at first glance, boring article about corruption within the Department for Lands and Properties which he had initially overlooked turned out to be something of a page turner in a rather nastier way. Apparently having inappropriate sexual tastes wasn't Goyle Senior's only personality fault; his tendency to not take "no" for an answer when purchasing properties appeared to be another, of course aided and abetted by Lucius Malfoy, Quentin Nott and Augustus Crabbe. One of the worst cases, so far, involved the misappropriation of the Mipps family farm. Snape remembered the Mipps, solid, quiet and dependable people; mainly Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs but occasionally they produced a Ravenclaw, and when the going got tough they would stand up and fight for what they believed to be right. They'd been hard hit by the fight against Grindelwald, and the war against the Dark Lord had reduced a once populous family to old Toesland Mipps, and his two children, Lucretia and Reginald. Toesland had died very suddenly in strange circumstance and Snape had found it rather odd at the time...but now he thought about it...maybe poison? With the old man gone, the younger Mipps didn't stand a chance against someone like Lucius Malfoy and Lucretia had ended up in Azkaban charged with the murder of her little brother...but according to this article there had been no trial...just a corrupt and easily bribed Auror, one William Suggs...wasn't he one of Malfoy's contacts, one of the shadier ones?...and the signature on the supposedly legal document confirming the sale of the Mipps family farm...well that was a fake...so there was something very rotten going on at the Ministry, at a very fundamental level...because if you couldn't trust the Department of Lands and Properties who could you trust?

Looking up at the House tables, eyes glazed deep in thought, Snape barely took in the gaudy Halloween decorations, the black and orange streamers, the glittering pumpkin shaped confetti that drifted down from the enchanted ceiling, and the floating jack-o-lanterns. Instead of the usual loud sugar fuelled conversation from the students, there was muttering, urgent and tense, as the students collected into huddles, ignoring the huge piles of sweets in favour of the special edition of the Daily Prophet. Angry debates circled round the tables, even the Slytherins joining in, some even going so far as to approach the Ravenclaw table to ask their opinion.

Like an island in a rough sea, Gregory Goyle sat alone, ignored by the others, staring down at the table, shoulders hunched, a picture of utter and complete dejection. Snape sighed to himself. After the untimely and rather embarrassing death of the boy's father, this was the very last thing he needed. He was going to be keeping a very close eye on Gregory from now on, maybe a one-to-one meeting every week, make that twice a week, and tell the older prefects to keep an eye out for the young Goyle, He had a feeling it was going to be uphill work to prove to the young man that he didn't have to be like his father, he could be something more...

The teaching staff were faring little better, all of them were in some state of shock. McGonagall, Sprout, and Sinistra were deep in a heated and angry conversation; all three had taught the Mipps children when they'd attended Hogwarts. Mind you, so had he, the first few years of his teaching career; not that he'd remembered much about them, neither having much aptitude for the delicate art of brewing.

Further down the table Hagrid looked positively furious and was muttering darkly to himself at the other end of the staff table, most of it seemed to revolve around "no way to treat a dog" and "nutcrackers" (Snape was pretty sure he didn't want to know anymore) while he angrily screwed the paper up into a small ball, elbows jabbing aggressively into the empty space where the were-wolf had been sitting only moments before. He had disappeared to his quarters after making a pathetic excuse about needing an early night in preparation for a busy day tomorrow. Snape sneered at the empty chair; he knew exactly why the spineless man had run away. If he could sit here despite losing Lily, then he couldn't see what the wolf's excuse was. "Coward." he muttered to himself.

On his other side, the Headmaster was a delicate shade of Eau de Nil, and looked as upset as Snape had ever seen him.

"He must have got to Skeeter, he must have..." Dumbledore muttered, dazed and horrified at the can of worms that had been openly displayed to the readers of the Daily Prophet. The elderly man turned to Snape, eyes full of worry. "How did he get to Skeeter?"

"How did _who_ get to Skeeter?" Snape asked, annoyed at the man's lack of clarity. Dumbledore answered his mouth to reply only to be interrupted by the frantic tolling of a single bell. The Headmaster's genial mask snapped back into place and he stood, sending off a few sparks from his wand with a loud bang.

"That is merely an alarm for the outer wards," he announced to the student body, "if you would please remain in your seats and continue with this most excellent feast."

Dumbledore turned to the other staff, all alert and waiting for his instructions, "Severus, Filius, Pomona, if you would come with me...Minerva, would you please watch over the students." he said with a small smile.

OOOOOO

"Absolutely no!" snapped the Fat Lady angrily folding her arms over her large and ample chest, glaring down at the scruffy excuse for a man who stood in front of her. Sirius Black was beyond frustrated; he'd tried every possible password he could remember and every word he thought a likely possibility, but still the stubborn portrait refused to let him into the Gryffindor common room.

"And that's final." the annoying woman shrilled at him, tipping her nose up and turning away, pointedly ignoring him. Sirius swallowed back the panic rising in his throat, desperation and despair muddling his thoughts. He tore at his hair in frustration, he _had _to get in, he just had to and he was running out of time. The Halloween feast should be ending shortly, and then the corridors would be filled with students travelling back to their common rooms. He definitely wanted to be clear of the castle by then with his prize. Except this ruddy portrait was getting in the way; he had tried pleading, shouting, threats, he'd sworn up a blue streak, but still the stubborn woman wouldn't budge in her demands for the password. Growling his frustration and growing rage, he reached for the kitchen in his belt that he'd "liberated" a few weeks previously, intent on doing the portrait serious harm...

...only to be interrupted by a downpour of tiny objects which pummelled him mercilessly, driving him away from the common room entrance with his arms raised protectively, building up around his feet, causing him to lose his footing. In his blind panic he changed back to his dog form, frantically paddling through the strange yellow sand, trying to keep his head above the surface as he was rapidly carried back down the stairs in a tumble of sand and flailing limbs.

OOOOOO

Remus Lupin limped along, tired and worm out, towards his office. Today, the twelfth anniversary of the murder of two wonderful people had left him depressed and miserable. He'd put in a token appearance at the feast, but the sheer jollity of the occasion grated on his every nerve. He had to leave before he embarrassed himself even more in front of the entire school. Bursting into tears would not help his already shaky credentials as a teacher. The strangeness surrounding little Harry had only made things worse. He sighed heavily to himself as he made his way along the second floor landing.

A rushing sound broke the soft silence of the main entrance hall rapidly turning into a rushing roaring, as a veritable avalanche of bright yellow sand poured down the main staircase, cascading down into the entrance hall in custard coloured waterfalls, rapidly burying the floor, and spreading out into the surrounding corridors. Lupin watched in opened mouthed silence, dazedly catching a few grains of the oddly brightly coloured sand. He was further flummoxed to find that each grain was, in fact, a tiny and perfectly formed rubber duck of the sort that muggles liked to have floating in their baths.

"What the _hell _is going on?" he gasped to nobody in particular, watching in bewilderment the continuing yellow deluge which showed no signs of stopping. A yelping bark caught his attention; doing a double take he watched as a very familiar shaggy black dog was carried past him in the yellow tide, frantically paddling to keep upright, spinning round with the curious currents the rush of minute objects produced. Their eyes locked across the rising tide of little yellow rubber duckies, each recognising the other. The dog's jaw dropped in a very un-canine like display of shock, and he redoubled his efforts of escaping the strange and artificial flood.

Lupin's calm snapped,

"SIRIUS BLACK, YOU TRAITOR!" he bellowed trying to wade out into the tide, throwing himself after the man who had betrayed all he held dear in life. The heavy tide pressed against him, sweeping him off his feet, but so he was wrapped up in his rage he barely noticed, frantically clawing, paddling and pushing his way through the yellow flood in a desperate attempt to get close enough to wring the mangy dog's neck.

"COME BACK AND FIGHT, YOU COWARDLY BASTARD!" he roared as the flood carried them both down into the main entrance hall.

The large and shaggy dog, finding itself free of the flood of tiny rubber ducks, sprinted for the safety of the shadows and a little used side corridor. Lupin tried to follow, paddling frantically, virtually swimming through the yellow flood, only to find the little rubber ducks suddenly vanishing, leaving him wind-milling in mid-air, arms and legs flailing, before landing in an undignified and painful heap of limbs. Groaning he slowly righted himself, tenderly holding his grazed chin.

A burst of deep laughter sounded from behind him, and Lupin scrambled frantically to feet only to find Dumbledore, Sprout and Flitwick staring at him and the yellow drifts of little rubber ducks in disbelief, while the source of the laughter, Snape of people, grinned at him looking as if all his Christmases had come early.

"Sirius Black! He was in the castle. He went that way!" Lupin frantically pointed across the yellow flood, "Headmaster!" he pleaded, practically vibrating on the spot.

And yet there was nothing they could do, the way being blocked by the flood of rubber, ducks which fortunately was starting to die down, the torrent from above reduced to a mere trickle, and so Sirius Black, wanted man and dog, managed to escape clean away from of the most secure places in Wizarding Britain.

OOOOOO

Standing on top of the Gryffindor table enabled Fred and George a view clear over the heads of the professors and part of the entrance hall, and the piles of what looked like bright yellow sand. The two boys exchanged worried glances; the timing had definitely been right, pity about the effect though.

"Oops." Fred murmured to George, and the terrible twins grimaced at one another; it looked like it was going to be back to the drawing board for their attempt to catch the "Hairy prankster".

"Oops indeed." a silky baritone purred from far too close. The twins turned slowly, and there stood Professor Snape grinning nastily up at them, arms crossed. Truly they were in trouble now, they gulped nervously...

OOOOOO

Not half a mile away, a large and shaggy dog sprinted frantically through the forest, trying to distance itself from the castle as quickly as it could, bewildered as to the madness it had encountered there. Sirius Black considered himself one of the finest pranksters Hogwarts had ever seen, but that...that was pure genius. Why hadn't he ever thought of something like that? Now if he could just get through his current difficulties...

OOOOOO

Carefully manoeuvring around a tight corner, Carrow carried the angular and to his mind, rather ugly bronze statue he'd recently discovered tucked away in one of the attics, down the main staircase to what had become the breakfast room. He'd been deliberately moving everything he could find in the house that was angular in design into it, regardless of whether any of it really went together or not, just as a little experiment. How far could he take it before Timothy snapped? So far his young apprentice had ignored his activities, though he had blinked in surprise when the collection of 1950's brightly coloured moulded glass "things" had appeared on the Italian 30's side-table. Obviously he needed to try harder.

Carefully he placed the heavy bronze in place, just where it would best catch the light. He stood back, considering the effect only to realise the artist's signature was visible. He frowned displeased; who was Henry Moore anyway? A small twist to the left hid the offending mark, and better displayed the angular verticals of the piece. Satisfied, he stood back to admire his handiwork.

Timothy's voice piped up behind him. "Madam Bones needs volunteers for an international incident. I put our names down for it. I hope you don't mind."

Carrow spun round on the spot, tense with excitement; stalking forward, eyes gleaming manically, he approached Faulks, who failed to so much as flinch, merely considering him with a small smile.

"Well?" he snapped, unable to stand the suspense any longer. Timothy's smile grew, revealing the divisive gold teeth, their engraved skulls glinting in the afternoon sunshine. "Transylvania...there's been a major incident involving a group of dark wizards, who are known practitioners of Necromancy. They've got themselves nicely holed up in a remote mountain valley and cave complex, and have been raiding the local villages and towns, stealing the living and dead alike," Timothy paused to consult his notes, "the latest information that has been gathered suggests that this group are about to attempt to raise a demon" he said slowly, watching Carrow's gleeful reaction with interest. "The local magical authorities just don't have the resources to deal with the problem, and so they have called for international aid."

Careful to keep his face completely neutral, Timothy continued, "If you're not interested, I'll just have to inform Madam Bones, she'll be terribly disappointed..."

"What?!" snarled an indignant Carrow, refuse an opportunity to smite the enemies of humanity and purge their stain from Holy Terra itself! His inner rant came to a grinding halt in the face of Timothy's broad grin...he was being teased.

"The portkey leaves in three hours, I'll go and get prepared then." Timothy turned to go. "The room is looking very good, by the way." he shot back over his shoulder, as he passed into the hallway.

Carrow huffed softly to himself, as he watched his young apprentice leave to get armed and armoured. He was definitely off his game if he was letting young Timothy get a rise out of him, not once, but twice no less.

OOOOOO

The senior hit-wizard was having a very bad day. Not only did he have a horrible feeling about the likely success of this mission, but the British Ministry had yet again sent the "wander off and slaughter the impossible" team. He ground his teeth in frustration; yet again Madam Bones had ignored his complaints completely, and sent the giant over-armed, over-armoured killing machine. The brute had got his secretary with him as usual, though gone was the ugly dun coloured monstrosity he'd worn when they'd dealt with the nundu. Now he was clad in bulky dragon-hide amour, heavy boots, a leather storm coat and peaked cap...and a sword of all things, he still had the funny rubber thing hanging round his neck, a gas mask?...and what was that standing behind him? The senior hit-wizard's eyes widened in shock; the small woman appeared to be a vampire, utterly bored, and with many knives strapped to her body. His highly sensitive mental trouble detector was doing its equivalent of imploding by this point...he tried to calm himself. It wasn't as if he could do anything about this, and worrying about it wasn't going to get the briefing finished. He turned back to the table holding the illusion of the target area.

"...and the British, French and Spanish teams will approach via the second pass to Entrance B, I expect that this will be less heavily guarded so will act as a..."

"No!" a booming growl drowned the senior hit-wizard out. "I refuse to allow my team and myself to be used so casually as cannon fodder." The black armoured suit had strode forward, and shouldered its way through the aurors and hit-wizards surrounding the table, chains and skulls clattering softly with the giant man's movements. Carrow stared down at the facsimile landscape before him, considering the strategic possibilities of the terrain.

"If I were defending this area I would place snipers here, here and here," one gigantic black digit pointed to ledges on rocky slopes overlooking the entrances to the target cave complex, "and I would also place them here and here, and then I would..."

The senior hit-wizard listened to Carrow's explanations of the defence of the target area opened mouthed. He hadn't thought of half of this stuff, and couldn't even begin to come up with ideas to counter it; how the hell did you defend against induced avalanches? Around him, the other members of the strike force were murmuring in surprise and consternation, some still puzzling over what precisely a sniper was.

"There are many other things I would use, were they available, that would make such a base virtually impregnable," Carrow's gaze swept over the assembled wizards and witches, "but I doubt any of you would have the sense to use such as I have already suggested." he said with a sneer.

"Only because we haven't heard of them!" piped up one of the wizards indignantly." What's a minefield anyway?"

Many of the others nodded their agreement, scowling at the giant merciless brute. Carrow squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation, saying a small prayer to the God-Emperor for strength. "I've explained twice the concept of explosive devices and their uses. What precisely is your problem?" he snarled through gritted teeth.

The auror pompously drew himself up. "It's just not possible for _muggles_ to produce anything that dangerous or sophisticated," he declared in heavily accented English, "their _technology_ is far too limited and crude." He chuckled nastily. "For goodness sake, they're _muggles, _they're weak and incapable." He looked around the gathered wizards and witches with a smile, looking for support. Some nodded and smiled, agreeing with his assessment of the majority of the human race, ignoring the scowls and muttering of the few muggle-borns and half-bloods, many of whom had at least one foot in the non-magical world.

"Enough!" roared the senior hit-wizard. "We are not here for casual conversation, nor are we here for a debate on the capabilities of muggle technology. Now, gentle-wizards and witches, we will continue with the briefing. Teams A and B will continue as planned...except for the British..." he turned to Carrow craning his neck to make eye contact, lips thin with dislike, "...and what will the British team be doing?"

Carrow tilted his head slightly, considering the smaller man with more than a little amusement, before returning his attention to the table landscape. "The British team will take the third entrance...here" he rumbled, a large armoured finger pointing to a well hidden and insignificant looking opening, high up on the mountainside some distance from the more obvious openings below. The senior hit-wizard sighed in exasperation; at least the bloody egotistical maniac wouldn't be underfoot then, and this time he'd make sure somebody sensible was keeping a carefully eye on the loon and his sidekicks. Now who could he trust...his eyes scanned the crowd before alighting on just the person. "Wulfric Deer, you'll be accompanying the Brits and assisting them as much as you can."

The burly blonde man look startled and angry for a moment before his expression became resigned. "Yes, sir" he mumbled, before approaching the very group of people he'd been fervently hoping to avoid. Faulks eyed the other man for a moment; where had he met him before...ah, the nundu incident, and this time he wouldn't be able to run away. Wearing a smile Carrow would have been proud of, Faulks extended his hand. "Welcome to the team" he purred. Taking his hand, Wulfric gave him a sickly smile.

000000

Wulfric leaned back against the cliff face under which he was sheltering, hot and sweaty, and very much out of breath. He was also sure he'd twisted his ankle somewhere on the long and unpleasant climb. So much for the morning calisthenics; he considered himself to be fit, but the Brits...the Brits seemed unbothered by the narrow and treacherous path and the vertiginous drops. The giant might as well have been walking on flat ground for all the notice he took, the little vampire seemed oblivious to her surroundings and just followed the giant wherever he went, while Faulks looked increasingly grim and stony faced the closer they had got to the entrance...but he was not out of breath**.** Frankly, Wulfric thought this jaunt up the mountain was a waste of time and they should be down below, with the others, where the action was going to be.

Faulks caught his attention, gesturing for him to follow and together they crept further up the path rounding a scarily narrow bend in the path. Wulfric blinked in surprise as the entrance came into view, Carrow standing guard over a small pile of broken bodies, with Natasha eyeing the cave itself with interest, a blood smeared knife in each hand. Seeing them, Carrow turned and strode off, easing his way carefully through the small opening, handgun at the ready, the little vampire trotting along behind him. Timothy turned to him, his own side-arm already drawn. "I recommend, Mr Deer, that you draw your wand." he said coldly before striding swiftly after his boss. Wulfric blushed scarlet; what a rookie mistake to make.

The cave entrance may have been small, but beyond, the passage rapidly opened up in height while sloping down, alarmingly in places. Part natural fissure, part quarried out by human hands, the passage twisted and turned, always going down, the surface of the rock marked by spell burn from blasting curses and quarrying charms, as well as the gouges caused by hand tools, most of it very raw and recent. What was this place, and why had this been done, Wulfric mused, raising the soft wand held light he had cast to examine some particularly odd looking scratches on the wall. They almost looked liked they been by somebody scratching at the wall with their fingers.

"Douse the light" a soft and dangerous voice snarled in his ear. Wulfric startled, turning only to find himself virtually nose to nose with Faulks, his eyes glinting coldly in the light from Wulfric's wand tip.

"There's nobody else here." Wulfric hissed back. The passage was completely empty and, apart from the people Carrow and Natasha had quickly dispatched outside they had met nothing. Even his diagnostic charms hadn't detected any sign of life or fresh magic signatures, and he'd also been unable to find any signs of anything that could be a ward, so what was all the fuss about?

Faulks's face became even harder and stonier. "Douse it!" he snarled softly. Behind him, Wulfric could see the eerie glow of Mr Carrow's helmet lenses, twin points of red glow in the darkness, watching the confrontation with interest. Wulfric licked his lips nervously, cold sweat trickling down his spine, before nodding and ending the light charm. How did he explain to these people that he really, really hated the dark?

Faulks whirled round, leather storm-coat flaring around his legs before stalking back along the passage to Carrow.

As they continued forward, the corridor gradually widened, lighting in the form of torches giving off a greasy light became present, and signs of crude graffiti chalked on the walls began to appear. The first side corridor caused them to pause again as Carrow carefully investigated it only to find a room full of animal bones, abandoned, yellowed and stinking. After that they increasingly came across signs of habitation, an abandoned cup lying on the floor, a room with mean pallets piled with thin blankets, a child's rag-doll, grimy and soiled from use, stuffing escaping from a seam...but no sign of a single living breathing person.

The silence was starting to get to Wulfric, all his senses telling him something was very wrong here. His inner wolf, the animal that took over whenever the moon hung full in the sky started to thrash against its prison. We're here to fix this, he soothed over and over again, we're going to get to the bottom of what's wrong here, and we're going to fix it. His wolf stopped its fight against its bonds, but he could tell it was still very much on edge. He didn't blame it; this place was seriously giving him the creeps. Movement caught his eye, a piece of chalk graffiti, an eye with slit pupil was focusing on him, watching his every movement following him as he walked further down the passage. Wulfric did a double-take, eyes scanning the rest of the chalk scrawls covering the passage walls, much of it animated in some way, most of it nauseating and mind-bending in a way that, on some primitive level, he understood promised only madness if looked at for too long. He tore his eyes away with an effort of will looking to the ground; it was bound to be safer. There was a hopscotch scratched beneath his feet by a childish hand, the squares not quite true, the outlines wavering, a pebble sitting in one of the squares, as if the players were about to return at any moment. He hurried on, shuddering, wanting desperately to leave the nauseating passage as quickly as possible.

The passage become larger and more clearly a major thoroughfare for the people living in this place; the horrific graffiti becoming denser and denser until it was almost impossible to distinguish individual pieces...and finally they could hear signs of human life, the sounds of chanting, muffled by distance percolating along the corridor. The chanting became louder as they drew closer, unimaginable words, evil and twisted, like the graffiti which crowded the walls, but there was a sub-harmonic, the sounds of shouts and screams, and of spell fire...the Magical Authorities had infiltrated successfully and were engaging the enemy.

Carefully, Carrow and his team eased their way to the end of the passage and the cavernous space beyond, wary of any possible sentries, anything that might give their presence away. The large cave was filled with people, men women, children, all gathered around a central group of thirteen dark and cowled figures, who stood around a ritual circle chanting, making gestures all to gather power, magic, all in order to open a gateway between here...and somewhere else. From the shadowed passage, Carrow and his team watched, as the strange crowd shuffled and swayed and groaned in concert with the chanting, adding themselves to the power to open the gateway.

Wulfric felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as his inner wolf growled and raised its ruff, fearful and angry at the strangeness of these people and the greasy soiled feel of the air. A hand held him back, causing him to jerk in surprise, head snapping up. Faulks was staring at him intently, his gaunt and scarred face grim. He leant forward, putting his mouth to Wulfric's ear. "Carrow will go in first and break through to the coven. We will go after him, keep anything from his back, understood?" He withdrew, eyes questioning. Wulfric gave him a small nod, wand and knife held at the ready. Faulks drew his sword, firearm in his other hand, moving closer to the wall giving Carrow room for his exit into the cavern.

Carrow drew his power sword, pressing the activation stud while murmuring appeasements to the machine spirit of the venerable weapon. Blue crackling fire coruscated along the sword, casting strange and flickering shadows on the walls of the passage. A quick nod to Faulks, and he broke into a sprint, sword slashing through the back rank of the crowd with a spray of blood and vaporising gore as Carrow slammed into the hangers-on of the coven, like a wrecking ball into a condemned building, his war cry, an ear-drum cracking bellow of pure rage at the abomination he was witnessing.

Pandemonium reigned as the mob, able to mainly ignore the Wizarding Authorities as they whittled away at their numbers on the other side of the cavern, suddenly found themselves confronted with this untouchable manifestation of pure murderous rage.

OOOOOO

The senior hit-wizard desperately sent another blasting hex into the face of a rabid follower of these dark wizards. Refusing to listen to reason these people had thrown themselves at the teams of hit-wizards and aurors as soon as they had entered the cave. The first few casualties had resulted when members of his team had tried to keep to their codes-of-conduct, and subdue these lunatics, or tried to avoid harming one of the many children present. The result had been the same and they had been murdered, torn apart by bare grasping hands by silent assailants who knew no mercy and had no fear of their own demise, who attacked with whatever they had to hand, rocks, their bare hands, their teeth even. The previously orderly, by-the-book mission had degenerated into an utter bloodbath as they fought to stay alive against this ravening mob. The hideous chanting, the very thing they had come to stop carried on unabated, mocking them with their failure.

And then there was a thunderous bellowing as of some prehistoric raptor let loose in the cave, and the sounds began to change, the chanting becoming more urgent, the groaning of the sickening mob more agitated as they began to leave the wizards alone, turning, heading towards the greater threat; a huge blur of black, striking limbs wielding a crackling blue blade as if it were an extension of its own body. The mob fell before this apparition of murder like wheat before a scythe, the bodies piling on the ground, the mob clambering over their dead fellows in order to reach murder incarnate only to fall in their turn.

OOOOOO

Screams of rage rent the air as Carrow finally broke through the mob and slaughtered the first of the dark wizards at the ritual circle, cleaving the man through clean in two with a single blow through his torso, semi-cooked offal spraying out from the catastrophic wound. The now thoroughly disrupted ritual ground to a halt, and the dark wizards turned their attention to ridding themselves of this large and dangerous interloper. Drawing their wands, they fired off horrific curses that Carrow dodged with ease, causing even more chaos as they impacted the mob, causing people to turn inside out or dissolve as their bodily organs turned to acid.

One of the last of the heavily cloaked figures, seeing the inescapable doom bearing down on him, turned and dived into the remains of the ragged mob, putting distance between himself and the armoured monster. His comrades closed ranks behind him, guarding his escape, and giving him time to apparate away with a loud crack. Carrow bellowed his rage and redoubled his efforts. The remains of the mob, seeing the last of their leaders fall, lost their coherence, turned and fled whichever way they could, falling onto the guns or spell fire of the other assailants, Carrow coming up behind ensuring there was no escape...and no quarter.

OOOOOO

Wulfric desperately slung another slashing hex at an oncoming...cultist he supposed they were. There was nothing rational about their behaviour. A slash with his knife discouraged another one, leaving him out of breath and sweating from the constant effort. They'd been at this for what felt like an eternity and it was really beginning to wear him down but there was no way he could he stop and pause even for a moment. Having followed Carrow's charge at a more sedate pace, they had found themselves surrounded. It didn't seem to be bothering the others; the little vamp slipped through the crowd of nut-cases like smoke, leaving a trail of blood and death in her wake, while Faulks was just as stony and grim as ever, showing just why he carried a cavalry sabre, as he left a trail of destruction of his very own augmented by the desert eagle he carried, but he might as well have been emptying the kitchen bin for all the emotion he put into it.

Wulfric himself? He'd graduated top of his class from Auror training and had done rather well for himself in the five years since, but these people made him feel inadequate, like a wet-behind-the-ears rookie, and the way they had gone in...Wulfric would eat his shoes if Carrow intended to take prisoners.

A yelp and swearing from Faulks's direction caused him to whip round. A quick flick of the wand and he'd sent a blinding hex followed by a bludgeoning curse to the lower back of one of the ragged man creeping up behind the beleaguered secretary. Faulks had got the blade of his sabre trapped between the vertebrae of a man. As he struggled to free it, the rest of the mob crowded round, sensing his vulnerability. Faulks retaliated, firing into the crowd. Wulfric joined him, shooting curses and hexes at the gathering mob, finishing with a fire whip, which had the ragged lunatics running for it. Behind, there was a nasty crunching noise, as Faulks finally managed to lever his sword free, minus two feet of the end. Faulks swore horribly; so it served him right buying something so cheap, and no matter how much he sharpened it was never going to be quite up to the job...he plunged the ragged remains of the blade into the belly of a man, little more than a walking skeleton, who was attempting to grab his throat. The sickly creature went down frothing at the mouth, small intestines leaking through his fingers from a ragged wound to his stomach.

"I could really do with a nice cup of tea right about now." Wulfric heard Faulks mutter to himself. Obviously working so closely with a certifiable nut-case was contagious in some way, and Faulks was busily coming down with a nasty case of Carrowittis.

The chanting abruptly stopped, the remains of the haunted mob seeming to freeze in shock, before rushing at the interlopers. Faulks abandoned his broken blade in favour of firing into the crowd, Wulfric adding slashing hexes and blasting curses, Natasha continuing to dart in and out of the crowd, leaving a trail of corpses behind her. The crowd gradually lost its cohesion, the attack reducing in intensity, the members of the mob panicking and running away, attacking one another, or simply falling to the floor as they finally succumbed to the awful wounds they had sustained...and then Carrow herded these shattered remains towards them, and the fighting intensified again... until there were no more.

Wulfric watched dazed as the large man spun on the spot, crackling blue sword ready, hunting for something. His body language suggested...disappointment for the lack of anything to fight. Frowning as he watched, Wulfric slowly got his breath back; if Carrow hadn't found a hundred obsessive lunatics a challenge to slaughter wholesale, what did he consider difficult? And did Wulfric really want to know?

OOOOOO

The senior hit-wizard winced as Carrow strode up to him, a bounce in his step, and stood far too close, his armour gore splattered and damp with blood.

"We should search the complex. There may be more of them hiding away" he gleefully announced in a booming voice, further augmented by his helmet's vox system. The senior hit-wizard gritted his teeth against the eye watering buzzing of the maniac's armour. Unfortunately, the man had a point.

"Right, you organise it then, take the remains of team A with you." he hurriedly said, hoping to get the pest to make himself useful, and out of the way. Carrow gave a small, but gleeful nod, before striding away, giving every impression of contentment at the thought of hunting down more possible combatants.

Nursing a blinding headache, the senior hit-wizard turned back to the utter carnage of the ritual site and the main cave. He'd seen plenty of dead bodies in his time, but he'd never seen them piled up quite like this...and he was pretty certain he never wanted to again...and the paperwork...he was going to be snowed under with so much of the stuff it would probably be the new year before he managed to dig himself out... not to mention what were they going to do about Carrow himself...the man didn't appear to be malicious, but they really couldn't afford to have another incident like this.

One of the Australian aurors, a short man not given to idle speculation, piped up. "That Carrow bloke," he said slowly, "what if he ever goes off the rails?"

The senior hit-wizard felt his migraine spike painfully, nauseous at the mental images that an out-of-control Carrow suggested. What would they, could they do against such a being as Carrow?

OOOOOO

Carrow crept quietly along the corridor deep within the cave complex. This one looked completely man-made, and finished to a high standard with fancy magical lighting globes, most of which didn't work. Faulks and Natasha followed not far behind, his Interrogator carefully following his training while Natasha ghosted along in the shadows, virtually invisible like most her kind. He had the impression that the little vampire was just as disappointed as he was at the lack of resistance; in fact they hadn't seen a single person since the purging of the ritual site. For some reason, Wulfric Deer was still tagging along, his werewolf nature naturally making him stealthy, though there was always room for improvement. The man's dual nature reminded him strongly of Space Wolves...when he'd first met his mentor, the elderly Inquisitor had had a Death Watch squad working closely with him, one of whom had been a Space Wolf. Carrow had learnt very quickly that the sons of Russ objected strongly to having their inner wolves poked...or their tails pulled. It had resulted in some wonderful fist fights...he sighed wistfully. Maybe he should keep the young wolf-man; nothing like a little kidnapping to cheer up the day, he grinned to himself.

OOOOOO

Following Carrow, Wulfric and Faulks warily spread out across what was hopefully the last chamber that required searching, the remains of team A following them, carefully casting all the detection charms they knew, tapping walls and treading carefully. It was possible that a cunning and devious opponent might think to trap the floor or even the ceiling, so it was best to be cautious.

"So..." Wulfric began, eyeing Faulks speculatively, "I noticed you didn't really use your wand earlier."

Faulks sighed to himself, ignoring the nosy twit.

"I take it you're not much of a duellist...at least with a wand...or," he continued watching Faulks confidently cast a particularly difficult ill-will cantrip, "you were saving yourself for this" he finished slowly, rather impressed with the other man's skill and knowledge.

Faulks eyed the big blond man carefully. "I think," he said thoughtfully, "you could describe my approach to magic as slow but careful, methodical even. It's very good for this sort of thing," he gestured to the room in general, "but my real speciality is enchanting and runes." He turned back to a potentially contentious piece of floor. "Duelling requires speed and thinking on your feet. Personally, I feel safer with non-magical combat."

They lapsed into silence as Faulks carefully examined the floor. It was definitely giving off more magic than it should, but was it a sign of some booby-trap, or did it just mean a piece of powerful magic cast in this spot?

"You could always enchant their underpants to eat them." Wulfric muttered behind him. Faulks snorted in surprised amusement, of all the ridiculous things...

A loud rumble caused the two men to spin round, weapons up, ready for anything. Faulks stared, eyes wide in surprise. Bundled up in Carrow's arms was some sort of creature, and a young one too judging from the sounds it was making. He came closer, carefully examining the grubby paw with, he noted, rather large claws that stuck out of the bundle, occasionally flexing. Big blue eyes peered out at him, blinking owlishly before the young creature yowled again, for food or comfort he wasn't sure. He looked up at the large man who had finally removed his helmet, and had to suppress a groan at the, for Carrow, almost soppy expression the man was directing at the animal in his arms.

"You cannot be serious," Faulks ground out, "have you considered the feeding costs...the time and care...the medical bills...the emotional commitment required?"

Carrow gave him a funny look.

"Just look at the size of the paws on it," Faulks continued desperately, knowing he was on a hiding to nothing, "they're _huge_, _it's_ going to be _huge_ like _most_ Siberian Tigers!"

"She!" snapped Carrow, mildly annoyed at the fuss his young Interrogator was making. It would be easy enough to kidnap an expert from the local zoo, so he really couldn't see what the problem was. He strode away with his precious bundle to ensure that the Wizards burnt all the cultist bodies, reducing the possibility of lingering taint. It would be a fitting end to an otherwise disappointing job.

As the remains of team A scattered out of his way, fear and more than a little awe in their eyes, Carrow smirked to himself. People were learning.

Faulks groaned to himself, face buried in his hands. Which deity had he annoyed so much his life was turning into a giant joke? Or maybe one of those surreal pictures with the melting clocks or floating apples?

Wulfric leaned closer. "What was your job description, again?" he asked.

Faulks stared at him stonily. "Secretary!" he snapped before stalking away, back rigid.

OOOOOO

A certain physics professor was making his way back to his office, after yet another exhausting meeting with his colleagues. He got on with most of them just fine, but there were a couple who wanted to play power games which made him want to tear his hair out. Such behaviour, unchecked, could potentially set the development of humanity back by centuries. Sometimes he regretted his promise to himself that he wouldn't directly interfere...but right now, he could really use a cup of coffee. Arms full of paperwork he opened his office door with an elbow, kicking it shut behind him, only to find a tired and testy barn owl waiting for him on the back of his chair. How the hell they were getting in, he had no idea. Relieving the tired bird of its parcel, he shooed it over to the parrot perch he'd resorted to buying. He'd told his colleagues a cousin had bought it for him for a joke; unfortunately a few of his more hilarious colleagues now thought it hysterically funny to occasionally present him with the odd parrot toy.

The parcel definitely wasn't from Carrow, completely lacking his strident and aggressive aura, which was a relief; a man with a mind like that, there was no knowing what he would send him, which only left one option. Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster and politician, a curious combination indeed. The man's trace on the wrapping felt considerable calmer than it had on the letters, almost hopeful in a way...curious.

Opening the parcel revealed a book, leather bound, with the title "Hogwarts; a History" embossed on the front in gold letters, along with the school crest; and there was a letter too...

_Dear Mr God-Emperor,_

The physicist winced, and mentally blasted Carrow.

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Thank-you for your lovely letter; I understand from your many questions that you have had virtually no contact with the Wizarding World, and so I am setting out to remedy this._

_The book I have enclosed is the definitive guide to the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and in the way of many things, it is also one of the best guides to British Wizarding history, traditions and customs. _

_I am sure it will serve to answer many of your questions. Happy reading!_

_Yours in good health,_

_A. Dumbledore._

The physics professor looked dubiously at the hefty leather bound tome. Well, he could give it a try, he supposed.

OOOOOO

Blinking, he looked up from the page, mind buzzing and churning with ideas from this wonderful book. Taking a gulp of his coffee, he grimaced, finding the beverage to be stone cold. Muttering to himself, he turned the kettle on.

The wonderful book with its animated pictures sat innocently on his desk. The ideas and information it contained, he grinned to himself, if transfiguration worked the way he thought it did, it was possible he could push forward the boundary of material sciences by hundreds of years...and potions, the medical possibilities were incredible...but also...could he affect the properties of a piece of wood say, by soaking it in a suitable potion...he needed more information...the advances he could make...and to think he nearly missed all this...he chuckled gleefully to himself, a manic gleam in his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

Author's Note

I would like to say a huge thank-you to all those who have taken the time to leave me a review or PM me, a special mention particularly to Blinded in a bolthole who undertook an amazing review marathon, and also to Gear-2557 who had PM'd me with many ideas and suggestions. It's incredibly encouraging getting feed-back and I always look forward to it whether it is positive or negative.

* * *

Chapter 5

Timothy woke with a yelp as something warm, heavy and furry bounced on him, mrowling and slobbering playfully. Just what he needed, he thought with a groan, as Artemis patted his face with one huge spiky paw.

"Off, you little monster" he growled sleepily at the irritatingly energetic bundle of fluff, gently ruffling her fur with one hand. A blurry eyed glance at his alarm clock revealed the horrible truth; 5.00 am. He slumped back into the pillows with a groan, arms full of wriggling tiger cub. What had he done to deserve this? Carrow must have managed to break past the locking charms and wards on his suite of rooms without setting off the alarms or blowing up this wing of the Lodge. The benefits of Carrow finally being able to muster some delicate control, was in Timothy's opinion, heavily outweighed by the negatives.

A deep and gravelly chuckle sounded from the doorway, and Faulks cracked open his eyes, glaring as evilly as he could while half asleep and hugging a white Siberian tiger cub who was currently, and cutely, batting at her own tail. The perpetrator of the wake-up-call by the feline of mass destruction stepped forward into the bedroom proper, clad in his training gear, having come from his morning run, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Firing range, half an hour" he boomed, before disappearing into the gloom of the study. Artemis bounced after her owner, managing to kick Timothy painfully in the stomach in the process. Lying winded and groaning on the bed, Timothy could only ask himself, why was he still here? Giving into the inevitable, he dragged himself off to the bathroom to prepare for the day ahead.

OOOOOO

_The grey concrete walls loomed in, getting ever and ever closer, the whispering of small children creeping up behind, as one of those disgusting golems approached her, reaching out..._

...and with a scream Skeeter sat bolt upright, the nightmare leaving her sweaty and shaken, eyes blind to the comforting familiarity of her own small bedroom with the threadbare but much loved quilt her mother had made her when she was eight years old, and the shelf full of her old stuffed toys and dollies that she couldn't bear to be parted from, though her favourite Susie-Boo had pride of place next to her pillow. But none of this was of any comfort now. It all felt so...thin, unreal and flat as if it were inhabited by somebody else, a flat cardboard person. Everything felt flat, like cardboard, so many different flavours of cardboard. Dragging herself to her small and very pink bathroom, she rubbed her gritty eyes trying to feel more awake, more alive, but it was a hopeless task. Everyday just getting up in the morning had turned into the most monumental of tasks.

Skeeter ran her fingers over the short blonde spikes of her hair. It had never been the same after its close encounter of the Carrow kind; in the end, she had just given up and shaved the lot off, and it was now slowly regrowing. Her glasses had disappeared too; Faulks had tried finding them for her, but Carrow was thoroughly uncooperative and sullen about the whole thing. She suspected that, actually, he couldn't remember what had happened to them and was covering his embarrassment. In the end Faulks had bought her new ones, rectangular and tortoiseshell; she'd been unable to face the idea of wearing anything that resembled her old ones. They reminded her too much of the brash and overconfident gossip hound who was out to pop anyone's ego-bubble regardless of the consequences, walking around thinking she was immortal, untouchable. She just wasn't that person anymore; in fact she didn't _want_ to be that person anymore.

She looked in the mirror at the gaunt face of a stranger, her face with its dark smudges under dull eyes and pale ashen skin. If it wasn't for her work, she would have crawled under a rock, happy to die there...but the stories were too important...she needed to get them out there. The public of the Wizarding Britain needed to know just how rotten their society, their government was.

"Why don't you talk to a friend?" the mirror murmured sympathetically to her. "You look like you could do with a good heart-to-heart."

Rita ignored it, striding purposefully out of the bathroom. She had a mission to complete.

OOOOOO

The day was grey and overcast, the sort of dull and featureless low-lying cloud that promised interminable drizzle for _days._ The last few leaves clung grimly to the hedges, rattling fitfully in the chilly breeze. Faulks saw none of this as he strode down the lane into Godric's Hollow proper, hat pulled down low and collar pulled up against the chill of approaching winter, totally lost in his thoughts.

The new firing range was an extension of the already extensive cellars that lay beneath the Lodge, as was the large training hall and Carrow's chapel, with its approach bordered on each side by what had recently turned out to be skull racks, and yet another source of consternation and stress; he heaved a sigh.

Lost in thoughts of the day's appointments, he had taken a wrong turn out of the firing range and, by the time he had realised his mistake, was completely lost. He had wandered along unfamiliar corridors and peered into strange half-formed rooms and halls populated only by the occasional passing dwarf, none of whom appeared to speak any English when he enquired as to the way out. Carrow had eventually found him wandering among the forest of fluted pillars of a massive hall, the distant ceiling arches wreathed in shadows that the many globes of fairy dust failed utterly to banish. Feeling the looming presence of his employer, he had turned, craning his neck to make eye contact with the ridiculously tall man.

"It's magnificent," he had whispered, awed by the vast space. Carrow had actually smiled, giving a small nod of agreement, before turning on his heel and walking away. Faulks followed in his wake with many backward glances at the incredible space.

So why did Carrow need all this? Well, that was probably a daft question; maybe it would be better to ask, what was Carrow planning to do with this massive warren of tunnels and rooms and halls? They were obviously carefully planned, and Carrow _never_ did things without some sort of reason, even if it only ever made sense to him.

Timothy grimaced, as he slipped his penultimate black Russian from his cigarette case. He'd had little time recently for running personal errands, thanks to Carrow...he had a suspicion that the large man didn't really understand that normal people needed an average of eight hours sleep a night. The pitiful three hours he had got last night were definitely going to come back to haunt him at some point. But in the meantime he was going to savour some Carrow free time. A stroll into town to pick up more cigarettes and the day's paper seemed a good antidote to the oppressive atmosphere of the Lodge.

The locals were starting to recognise him, some giving him wary glances, others tentatively greeting him. The vicar pipped his horn as he drove past in his battered Volvo estate, Goldie the Labrador looking out the back window, tongue lolling happily. Timothy waved back with a small smile.

The cheerful ding of a bell chimed out as Timothy pushed open the newsagent's door, before he realised something was rather odd about the small shop's window. Stepping back outside he stared in consternation at the large sign that now filled the window. A picture of a tiger was surrounded by a red ring with a slash through it, and underneath in bold type was the legend "No Tigers Allowed! Under any circumstances!" Timothy groaned in frustration. Seriously, Carrow was like athlete's foot; the man got everywhere, caused incredible discomfort, and was almost impossible to get rid of.

When he entered the crowded space of the newsagents, the normally jovial owner was glaring at him from behind the counter, arms crossed over his ample chest.

"I've got a bone to pick with you!" the short, rotund man snapped.

"Uuhm..." Timothy nervously shifted under the glare of the dowdy man in front of him, dreading to hear precisely what Carrow had done now.

"Your ruddy boss!" the little man snapped. "He came in here the other day with that blasted pet tiger of his!"

"Aahh..." Timothy winced. This was not sounding good as the next ten minutes proceeded to prove, as the newsagent regaled him with a sorry tale involving Carrow, Artemis, old Mrs Higgins, Mrs Higgins' joint of beef, and the wrong side of Mrs Higgins' handbag. Timothy dropped his head into his hands groaning. What had he done to deserve this?

"I'll have a word with him" he muttered, feeling very old. "Part of the problem is he doesn't consider Artemis at all dangerous." Timothy sighed heavily. "Whether he'll take any notice of course..."

The newsagent nodded sympathetically. "You deserve a medal working for that man."

OOOOOO

Skeeter cautiously approached the street level entrance to the Ministry of Magic, notice-me-not charms carefully in place, wary of any nearby magical. The run-down street on which the telephone box disguised entrance stood was deserted, but you could never be too careful, thought Skeeter, her eyes narrowed in suspicion, as she warily looked out for odd shadows or things moving in non-existent breezes. Now if only she could see magic; it was definitely something to look into.

Sidling up to the red telephone box, she slipped inside, doing her best to ignore the signs posted by ladies offering dubious services, and the pungent odour of wee. Trying hard not to breathe through her nose, she picked up the receiver, and dialled 62442. A tiny female voice piped up on the other end of the line, "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic, please state your name."

"Genghis Khan" Skeeter stated, trying to suppress her sniggers.

"Please state the purpose of your visit today." the little voice continued unperturbed.

"Stealing your first born children," Skeeter grinned from ear to ear.

"Thank-you for your time, enjoy your visit," the little voice tinkled cheerfully.

A small thunk sounded from the change slot on the phone, as it spat out Skeeter's visitor badge for the day. Eager to see the results, Skeeter grabbed it. "Genghis Khan, child trafficking", the badge cheerfully stated. Grateful for the inner department competition to see who could produce the most outlandish badge, Skeeter quickly pinned it to her robe and changed to her beetle form as the telephone box descended into the ground. As the atrium came into view, she carefully crawled through the lattice of the lift doors, quickly flying up to the elaborately decorated plaster work above. The world always looked different as a beetle, Skeeter mused, as she scuttled across the atrium ceiling. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and so an attempt at gagging her by some of Fudge's odious little supporters had resulted in her sneaking into the Ministry in her animagus form, more determined than ever before that she was going to get to the bottom of the intriguing mystery that Faulks had posed to her.

Where did all the muggleborns go?

The Department of Education records clearly showed a steady stream of highly talented and highly qualified muggleborn students entering the world of Wizarding work every year, Faulks having been one himself...and then they mostly disappeared. A few went abroad, mainly to America and Australia searching for work, while others re-entered the muggle world, turning their backs on magic...so what happened to the rest?

Faulks had told her the strange and worrying tale of a friend and fellow muggleborn who he'd known at Hogwarts. Gareth Hinkly had been particularly talented at transfiguration and had wanted to do his mastery after he left school, but had failed to find anybody who would accept him as an apprentice in the UK. Loath to leave his family he'd looked for a job, any job, becoming increasingly desperate. Not even the Ministry would have him, even as a toilet cleaner, and that was the last Faulks had seen of him for a while, caught up as he was in the long and anti-social hours of his own work, such as it was.

The last time he had seen his friend, Hinkly had been a ragged, glassy eyed mess, jittery and twitching, but had cheerfully told Timothy that he'd found work and that it paid really well. He'd been evasive when Timothy had enquired as to details, like who was employing him, but had hinted that it involved delivering parcels. Faulks had been highly dubious, feeling that this sounded extremely dodgy and had told Hinkly so. The two had parted on bad terms.

Six months later, and Faulks had received a letter from Hinkly's mother, an invitation to his funeral. Hinkly had committed suicide, hanging himself with his own bootlaces while in Auror custody awaiting trial for illegally importing dangerous and banned potions ingredients. Due to his terrible physical condition caused by prolonged laudanum addiction, the Auror healers had been unable to revive him; a tragic end to a bright and talented young man.

OOOOOO

Faulks looked up from his specially warded computer in alarm, exchanging dark looks with Wulfric, who had been hunched over a High Gothic primer in the corner; even Natasha had stirred from her slumber on the sofa set aside for waiting visitors. What was Carrow doing to the pure-blood idiot from the Muggle Liaison Department? Faulks had done his absolute best to get through to Carrow that killing Ministry employees at the Ministry was not a good idea if he wanted continued good relations with the Wizengamot. Sometimes, he had the feeling that Carrow was just humouring him.

A moment later, and the Ministry employee in question dashed out of the dark office, grey-faced and sweating, robes slightly torn at the hem.

"Would you like to make another appointment?" Faulks asked sweetly. "I'm sure Mr Carrow would be delighted to continue your discussion at a later date."

The scrawny pigeon-chested man glared down at him with a nasty sneer, but at the steely glint in Faulks's eyes, decided that retreat was the better part of valour, and so stormed away muttering darkly about giant maniacs, their taste in dangerous pets, and their filthy mud-blood and half-breed staff. Wulfric sniggered from behind his book as Faulks watched the horrible little man go, his smile not lessening at all. There were times when he just loved his job.

OOOOOO

Skeeter ran over a gaudy piece of gilded plaster work shaped into elaborate and twining acanthus leaves, getting closer and closer to her target, the lifts to the Auror department. Her faceted eyes picked up the presence of one of Fudge's more vocal supporters, a weedy pigeon-chested young man who she vaguely thought might work in the Muggle Liaison Department. Clicking happily to herself, she took in the shaken and slightly nibbled state of the little berk as he ranted about Carrow's new pet.

Slipping in over the heads of the oblivious Ministry minions, she spied a memo plane addressed to the Office of Criminal Records. Delighted, she settled on top; this would definitely save her wings.

OOOOOO

Faulks looked up from his paperwork in alarm at the thunderous bellowing issuing from Carrow's office, while Wulfric eyed the door with wide eyes, the two men exchanging glances. The large man had been in a filthy temper ever since the morning meeting with Minister Fudge. Yet again, the Minister had refused to listen to his demands for trials for untried prisoners in Azkaban and the introduction of entrance exams for Ministry employees, had ignored Carrow's objections to the use and even existence of the Dementors, and had continued to be obstructive over the dark creatures' current location. The little man had eventually made a strategic dive for the knee-hole of his desk when Carrow had become more...insistent.

Carrow had not been amused.

The Minister's Senior Undersecretary, one Delores Jane Umbridge, calling him a filthy unnatural half-breed to his face had also not helped matters.

The door slammed open, and a thunderous Carrow stormed out, eyes flashing with rage, and small blue sparks trickling across his scalp. He looked from his secretary, who sat stiff backed and stony faced behind his desk, only his eyes betraying his nervousness, to the curled up form of his snoozing vampire "body guard" to his new acquisition, the American Arbites, Wulfric Deer, who was peering at him over the top of the High Gothic primer. Carrow looked around the room carefully searching for any listening devices. Despite their twice daily sweeps, you could never be too careful. Seeing a possible listening charm left by the spineless inbred from the Muggle Liaison Department, he swiftly dismantled it.

"I have come to a decision!" he finally announced to the two men, both of whom looked at him questioningly.

"I want the Senior Undersecretary position" he purred to the room. The silence that received his announcement was like a physical thing. Eventually Faulks cleared his throat.

"Sir, _Madam Umbridge_ currently holds this position," he looked sternly at his unimpressed employer, "and she shows no sign of vacating it any time soon."

Carrow's smile was terrifying to behold. "That won't be an issue, I can assure you." His smile became even crueller, if that was possible.

Faulks watched his impossible employer stroll happily back into his office, Artemis trotting in his footsteps, a blinding headache beginning to develop above his right eye.

"Sooo," Wulfric began, "is this pretty much a normal day around here?" He nodded towards Carrow's office door.

Faulks chuckled hysterically to himself. "Pretty much."

OOOOOO

Crawling across the top of a shelf of files, Skeeter carefully scanned her surroundings for any suspicious sounds, movements or smells of the human variety. Her senses as a beetle were so different, that occasionally she misjudged or misinterpreted what her altered senses were telling her. It had led to the odd close call over the years. Satisfied that this particular dusty and dark part of Halls of Criminal Records was deserted, she changed back to her human form, quickly applying a notice-me-not charm, and a recent discovery which was rapidly becoming a favourite, a somebody-else's-problem charm. That sorted, she quietly sidled down the aisle looking for _Hinkly, Gareth_.

Hadley...Haliput...Hedley...Hepplewait...Higgins.. .Hinkly...

Hinkley, Gareth. P...Skeeter paused, her hand on the spine of the file before pulling it out. It was strangely thick, considering how young Mr Hinkley had been when he died. What had he managed to get tangled in, to produce a file _this_ thick in just... what, four years? It was shocking how young Mr Hinkly had been when he died. Tentatively, she opened the records. The first recorded crime involved an altercation in a shop on Diagon Alley. Reading between the lines Skeeter suspected that Hinkly had been going from business to business asking after vacancies, and had tried defending himself when he was attacked for being muggle-born. Of course, the Aurors had sided with the shopkeeper, and Hinkly had been fined for public affray, his mug-shot glaring out defiantly, the young man obviously stunned to be in trouble like this. The next crime just three weeks later involved public drunkenness...and it went on in this vein, painting a picture of a bright young man sinking into a dark and evil mire as his confidence and self-respect were stripped away from him. The last year of arrests involved Laudanum and the trafficking of illegal and highly dangerous potions ingredients in inappropriate body orifices, the actions of a man who had nothing left to lose, not even a shred of dignity or pride left, the mug-shots showing a gaunt and sickly creature that looked more dead than alive. Skeeter looked around carefully before pulling out her wand and using a specialist archivist charm to duplicate the entire record into a pre-prepared note-book she had taken to carrying around with her; with its never ending supply of pages she was finding it increasingly essential for her work.

So what about other muggleborns who had stayed in the Wizarding World? Skeeter set to work sating her curiosity, looking for the names of others born to muggle parents that Faulks could remember. Not all of them were present but those that were...thievery, violent crime, both as victim and perpetrator, muggings, laudanum addiction, prostitution to trafficking in dangerous substances and dark objects...the crimes these people had committed or had been victims of were appalling even to Skeeter's jaundiced eye, and even more unsettling were the repeated appearance of familiar names, often as witnesses but sometimes as victims; Augustus Crabbe, Geoffrey Goyle, Quentin Nott, occasionally Lucius Malfoy. And the Auror witness to their statements?

William Suggs.

Skeeter's journalist senses were tingling frantically by this point; here was the tip of something huge and very terrible going on under the very nose of the average wizard and witch on the street.

OOOOOO

Faulks looked up at the sharp rapping on the outer office door, his face breaking into a genuine smile at the sight of the person standing there.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, what can I do for you today?" Faulks walked round his desk to shake hands with his former teacher. Dumbledore smile delighted at seeing his ex-student, taking in with some concern the increasingly large number of minor facial scars the young man was now sporting as well as his general gauntness.

Wulfric came over, his eyes shining with awe at finally getting to meet one of his heroes. "Albus Dumbledore? The defeater of Grindelwald?" he asked, "Wulfric Deer, it's a pleasure to meet you sir," he said breathlessly, shaking his idol's hand.

"Indeed I am," Dumbledore replied with a warm smile, "I'm taking it from your accent that you are from America."

"Indeed I am sir," Wulfric began, feeling uncomfortable, "a certain someone decided they wanted me working for him and... um...kidnapped me I think is the best description."

Dumbledore's eyebrow rose in surprise, his expression concerned. Shifting uncomfortably in the sudden stilted silence, he looked down at the sudden head butting of his knees and into the big blue eyes of a half-grown tiger cub.

"And who is this beautiful youngster?" he cooed down at the rapidly growing feline.

Timothy smiled affectionately down at the big fur-ball of pain, "Artemis. Carrow rescued her from almost certain potion ingredients-hood during the incident in Romania. She was in a bit of state; her siblings didn't survive the experience but she's pulled through magnificently." His eyes followed her as she trotted over to the couch, where Natasha lay curled among the cushions. Before anyone could stop her, Artemis had bounded onto the sofa, belly flopping heavily on top of the sleeping vampire, who squawked with indignant surprise at her rude awakening, sitting bolt upright as the furry mischief maker scurried off and hid behind Wulfric's legs, eyes bright with amusement.

"Ah, I see Carrow has been an influence," Dumbledore said eyes twinkling with laughter, "and a good afternoon, Natasha," he addressed the vampire who, unheeding of her surroundings, curled up back to sleep now the feline menace was no longer near her.

"I think it's more a case of the pair of them being a bad influence on each other" Timothy mused, Wulfric nodding in agreement.

Dumbledore turned to Timothy once more. "I was hoping to see Mr Carrow if he's available" he said with a small smile. Seeing the worry in Timothy's eyes he tried to reassure him. "It is merely a social visit, to check on his wellbeing, as his official mentor, you understand."

Timothy looked relieved, despite the almost Slytherin control he seemed to have over his expression these days; and Timothy had been such an expressive child too, mused Dumbledore. It seemed close and prolonged contact with Carrow changed people in unexpected ways.

"Headmaster Dumbledore" a thunderous rumble came from above their heads. The three men turned, coming eye to chest with Carrow, before craning their necks to make eye contact.

Dumbledore smiled up at the stony visage of the larger man, unflinching at the assessment of that icy green gaze. "I was hoping you would be able to spare me a moment of your time, Allesandor," Dumbledore's smile widened, "just for a little chat."

Carrow eyed the old man carefully. If this was about his treatment of the idiot Minister, then he was going to be very angry indeed, but knowing how very persistent Dumbledore could be...the man wielded his mild nature and good humour as if it were a weapon. It was an approach Carrow wasn't used to.

OOOOOO

A noise at the end of the aisle had Skeeter reflexively changing into her beetle form, flying up and tucking herself away on top of the bookcase just as an archivist strode down the aisle filing papers as he went, baskets of paperwork floating behind him, pieces of parchment dancing their way into their files with every flick of his wand. When the old man had passed and turned down another aisle, the baskets trailing after him like ducklings following their mother, Skeeter crawled from her hiding space breathing a sigh of relief. That had been close.

She renewed her search looking for names she remembered from her time at Hogwarts more than a decade ago. How far back had this been going on?

As she searched the same pattern emerged again as muggleborns fell to crime and drugs, either dying or ending up in Azkaban until their own untimely deaths. One name stuck out in particular, one of her fellow Ravenclaws who had ended up in Azkaban pending trial accused of assault against Augustus Crabbe, except there was little proof that any such crime had happened, merely his word that such an event had taken place...and there was no record of the case ever coming to trial, meaning that her fellow student had spent the best part of twelve years rotting in Azkaban. And who was the Auror working on the case? Skeeter gave the scrawling signature a jaundiced glare. Why was she not surprised?

William Suggs...

...who was currently on trial for corruption, dereliction of duty, murder, taking bribes and a long and ever increasing list of other crimes. A man, who, it was becoming increasingly clear, had been thoroughly in the pocket of a number of suspected Death Eaters, and who had used their monetary gifts to fund his nasty gambling habit.

And the most interesting thing about this particular case? This particular Ravenclaw had been a pure-blood, eighteen generations if he had been to be believed, but his family had been dirt poor, their one and only property being a small orchard in Kent, from which they managed to scrape a living. So obviously being purely magical was no guarantee of safety from these predators. It seemed the rot ran very deep indeed in Wizarding Britain and had been growing unchecked for a long time.

Faulks needed to know about this.

OOOOOO

Carrow carefully eyed the old man, as Faulks drifted around his office, providing them both with tea and chocolate digestives, hindered by Artemis, who, sensing food was being served, had become overly attentive, and very much under foot.

The headmaster was his normal cheerful self, thanking Timothy for the tea and biscuits, and happily patted the half grown tiger on the head after removing anything edible from her immediate range. Carrow pensively sipped his tea, wondering where this was going to go. If it was to ask him to back off from the Minister, then he was going to be extremely disappointed.

When Timothy left them, Dumbledore settled back comfortably in his chair with his cup of tea, and delicately nibbling a biscuit while expertly ignoring the intense and imploring gaze of Artemis. He always enjoyed seeing other people's offices; the knickknacks and other decorative choices people made could tell you a lot about them, and he would be the first to admit it, what with his collection of rare grimoires and magical gadgets; he wasn't entirely sure what some of them did, but they were just so fascinating.

Carrow's office was by far one of the most worrying rooms he'd ever entered. It seemed to be dedicated to intimidation and violence. The surprisingly small size and dark colour scheme were already oppressive, but then Carrow had added a stuffed and snarling Nundu head, as well as a large painting depicting a scene of utter carnage perpetrated by giant armoured figures that hung behind Carrow himself, even Carrow's choice of leaving his desk a comparatively normal size added to the effect as he appeared to loom over any visitors to his office. The other painting, the torture scene, was over egging the pudding in Dumbledore's opinion, thought maybe young Allesandor had it there for another reason...the stoic expression of the man as his skin was slowly peeled off was rather disturbing. What sort of character and experience led a person to be able to handle what must be monumental pain in such a manner?

And of course there was the man himself sitting in his chair, sipping tea and watching every movement intently with his unreadable glacial eyes.

"I hope you are in good health Allesandor?" Albus asked with a smile.

The large man gave a curt nod, waiting patiently for Dumbledore's next question, but the old man just sat looking at him with an expectant smile.

Slowly, it occurred to Carrow that maybe Dumbledore was waiting for him to say something to make "small talk" as it were, rather than say get to the nitty-gritty of why he was here. Grabbing the proverbial grox by the horns he ploughed in. "And how are you, Headmaster Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore grinned cheerfully at him. "Very well, thank you, but you really must call me Albus, my dear boy." He settled more comfortably in his chair, artfully avoiding Artemis's inquisitive lunge towards his biscuit. "Now, I'm sure you're wondering why I've come to see you. Well, I'm your Ministry appointed mentor as part of the special bill to declare you an adult."He looked at Carrow as if he expected the other man to be delighted at this announcement. Carrow eyed him back, dubiously wary of his intentions.

"And so," continued Dumbledore cheerfully, "I thought it would be a lovely idea if we got together, say once a week for a cup of tea and a little chat, just so if you have any problems or questions or just need a sympathetic ear- well, I'll be there for you" he finished with a smile.

This sounded like interference to Carrow, and what precisely was Dumbledore going to get out of such an arrangement? It just had to be political in nature. Maybe this was an attempt to influence him by the so called "Light Alliance" headed by Madam Longbottom; it was well known that Dumbledore was sympathetic towards their manifesto. It was unlikely to be some plot by Fudge, as the man just didn't have the guile to put in place such a plan, particularly now he didn't have Malfoy holding his hand. It was highly unlikely to have anything to do with the main opposition who like to call themselves the Traditionalists, champions of Wizarding culture. Made up mainly of suspected Death Eaters and their sympathisers, he was currently in the process of gutting them, and they were now in such disarray that they had little in the way of political power, and certainly weren't organised to try something like this, too busy as they were with their inner petty squabbles and power plays...so that just left the older, supposedly neutral families who had started to put together a tentative alliance over the last month...but they were reputed to be "dark", whatever that meant, and not likely to try making alliances with someone like Dumbledore, though politics did make odd bedfellows...

Dumbledore loudly cleared his throat. "I do hope that is agreeable with you?" he smiled up at Carrow.

Carrow blinked, his mind racing, trying to grasp at what precisely Dumbledore's motives were here. Tentatively, he reached with his mind, brushing against Dumbledore with a feather light touch, just tasting the man's mood, his motives, the whole action taking just microseconds. Utterly incredulous, Carrow could just stare in mild shock. The Headmaster was concerned that he, Alessandor Carrow was failing to make friends, was having difficulties fitting in, and in fact was in the process of making several devious plans to introduce him to suitable people he might like...and possibly even a nice young lady or two. The man secretly dreamed of being surrogate grandfather to his children.

And this was all meant with kindness. The old man wasn't after anything in particular for himself, he was just concerned about the well-being of the only child of two people he'd considered to be friends. There was no other motive that Carrow could find, nothing political, nothing personal...this was it, the end-of-times had arrived, the Apocalypse, Ragnarok...people just didn't behave like this, it was unnatural!

And the worst part, in Carrow's opinion, was the extreme difficulty he would have in dodging the Headmaster's schemes for at least the next four years.

When he got his hands on that Eldar witch...

OOOOOO

It was as everybody was leaving the Great Hall for the first class of the day that Snape spotted it. The Weasley twins had been walking along chatting loudly to their friend Lee Jordan, and Snape had just been waiting for a golden opportunity to pounce on the pair, and deduct as many points as he could...for plotting mischief...for talking too loudly...for just existing to annoy him if he was being honest...but a slight movement he spotted out of the corner of his eye gave him pause. Ronald Weasley had drawn his wand, but was keeping it low and pointed at the twins' backs. With a small flick of his wand and a murmured incantation, he had sent a pale lemon yellow spell at their backs, before he melted back into the crowd of noisy, chattering students.

Snape narrowed his eyes suspiciously. It looked like the mystery pranksters had yet again targeted the twins. It wasn't obviously harmful...so did he wait and see what would happen...or did he come down hard on the perpetrators? Decisions, decisions...now he knew how the poor donkey caught between two mangers felt. But on the other hand, if he waited for the effects of Mr Weasley-most-junior's spell work to reveal itself, he could then come down on the irritating brat hard, _and_ get to see the terrible twins have a taste of their own medicine too, thereby enabling him to both have his cake and eat it. Decision made, he strode away to his first class of the day, humming happily to himself, disturbed students scattering out of his way.

OOOOOO

It was during the morning's second potion class of fifth year Gryffindors and Slytherins that it became clear precisely what Mr Weasley-most-junior had done to his older brothers. Fred and George were uncharacteristically sober, worried frowns marring their normally cheerful faces, as they surreptitiously glanced round the classroom searching for something or someone. Lee Jordan, sitting between them, seemed puzzled and exasperated by their behaviour.

"Sir," one twin whispered to him as he inspected the annoying Gryffindor's potion, "have you seen George? I can't find him anywhere and nobody will help me."

Snape stared at him, fighting to keep his face straight; what precisely did the boy mean? He obviously wasn't joking considering the worried look to his eyes, the slight edge of panic that was starting to build up there. Which was all very odd considering his twin was just a couple of seats away, unless...

Snape smirked to himself. How long had it taken little Miss Granger to produce a notice-me-not variation specifically tailored to the twins? It was rather impressive work for a student with only a couple of months of arithmancy under her belt.

"I think you will find, Mr Weasley that your brother isn't that far away and is in fact completely safe" he murmured to the panicking Weasley. Oddly enough, the boy seemed to find this reassuring. Blasted Carrow had completely ruined his reputation with the Weasleys. The boisterous family of red-heads were trying to adopt him, not taking no for an answer, eagerly rushing to his defence whenever they felt it necessary, and championing his name whenever possible. Only a fortnight ago, the twins had got into a physical fight with a group of Hufflepuffs who had dared describe him as a greasy git in front of them. The resulting brawl had not been pretty, nor had Dumbledore's amusement at his expense. His reputation was being _ruined,_ and all because he had done his duty as a teacher protecting a student from certain death. Life was hard, and then it threw you a bludger, he thought to himself with a scowl as he prowled around the classroom ready to pounce on the slightest misdemeanour.

OOOOOO

Lunchtime had turned into a massive joke as the scourge of the rubber ducks reoccurred, causing students to transfigure umbrellas out of spare bits of parchment or levitate objects over their heads to avoid the silent, stinging rain of small blue water-fowl which dropped down from the enchanted ceiling like mutant hail. Snape had conjured a black umbrella, holding it smartly over his head while he enjoyed his cheese on toast, daring any of the little miscreants to so much as smirk at the small bats that fluttered around the rim of his improvised shelter.

He had noticed the frantic look with which the twins had looked around the hall when they had entered, failing completely to find their other half. As lunch progressed, they became even more distressed; each time someone entered the hall they both jumped up frantically, their movements in perfect synchronicity, desperately hoping to see that familiar shock of red hair, that familiar face, only to be utterly disappointed as some completely ordinary Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw entered to join their friends.

Even the most unobservant student was beginning to notice that something was not quite right with the demon pranksters of Gryffindor, if the waves of sniggering laughter, turning heads and pointing fingers was anything to go by.

"What is it with that pair this today?" Flitwick muttered to no one in particular. "They were more distracted than usual this morning..." he paused thoughtfully. "It's almost as if they're under a charm" he mused, beginning to grin. "Do you think, Severus," he said, turning to the dour potions master, "that maybe our mystery pranksters from September have struck again?"

Snape nodded." Indeed, it seems highly likely." He smirked at the smaller man. "Should we do anything? Or should we just let it wear off naturally?"

Filius's normally jovial smile turned evil. "Well now, we don't know for certain what exact spell was used on them. It could take a while to identify... and a little analysis to double check it, of course..."

Snape grinned back; what an excellent train of thought. Let the terrible twins stew in their own juice for a while. It might do them the world of good to have a taste of their own medicine for once...and in the meantime he'd be able to deduct points for their appalling conduct. This was definitely turning into a win-win situation. He smirked to himself, despite the increase in the intensity of rubber ducks raining down from the ceiling, causing many students to scramble for the relative safety found under the long house tables.

OOOOOO

Snape forgot all about the twins and their trouble during the afternoon, as he dealt with the incompetence of seventh year Ravenclaws who should have know better, but still managed to blow their cauldrons up, and the sheer utter stupidity of terrified Hufflepuffs first years who had dared enter his classroom without cracking open the textbook. By dinner time, he had worked up quite the appetite, having had the opportunity to shout at seven different students, viciously puncturing their inflated egos, and take vast quantities of points.

His perusal of the dishes in front of him, Shepherd's pie or Toad-in-the-hole (decisions, decisions) was interrupted by shouting from the Gryffindor table.

"Fred, Fred, can you hear me?!" George Weasley bellowed while standing on top of the Gryffindor table, his oblivious twin only yards away, mirroring his own actions,

"George, George, where are you?"

"Fred, where are you?"

"George, can you hear me?"

The collective body of Hogwarts students were roaring with laughter at the distraught twins, some even managing to fall off their seats in their mirth. Many thought this was some sort of elaborate joke the two were playing, and were just waiting for the punch line, while others were enjoying seeing the two notorious pranksters, obviously upset and distressed, getting on the wrong end of somebody else's prank for a change, having suffered at the hands of the twins themselves. The twins themselves were oblivious to all this as they continued to shout for their twin, ignoring the red-faced indignation and threats of the Head Boy, their brother Percy. Through the roaring, hooting crowd of students strode Professor McGonagall like some avenging Scottish angel. Percy turned, seeing salvation. "Thank goodness Professor, I thin..."

"Mr Weasley and Mr Weasley! Off the table NOW!" she snapped, her face furious, her mouth a hard thin line. "Cease this nonsense at once or you can add another month of detention and ANOTHER letter to your mother onto your current punishment."

George and Fred paled dramatically, quickly scrambling off the table and retaking their seats, dreading the idea of a repeat of_ that _howler. How could they get anyone to take their predicament seriously, they thought independently. What they needed was a sympathetic and objective ear, someone who would be able to advise them as to how they could end their current predicament. But who did they have at Hogwarts who could fulfil that role...and then it struck them both at the same moment...Professor Snape.

Both boys, feeling happier, tucked into their dinners.

OOOOOO

Snape looked up from his marking, third year Gryffindors, and as utterly wretched as he expected, at the sound of knocking on his door. He sighed, exasperated, suspecting that this was very likely to be the other half of the dastardly duo come to disrupt his evening.

"Enter!" he snarled.

Fred Weasley stuck his head around the door and nervously edged into the room, Snape watching his every move carefully in case of any..._funny business._ Under the careful scrutiny of the potions master, it became amply clear to Snape that without his twin, this one, whichever one he might be, was actually more reserved and at the moment, was behaving in a distinctly Hufflepuffish manner. Maybe he should tell the brat, or would that be considered cruel? And did he care anyway?

"Sir," Fred piped up breaking Snape's train of thought, "I was wondering whether you could help me..." He paused shifting nervously, his face so pale it almost seemed luminous in the gloom of the dungeons. "I think...I think..." he paused rallying himself, "I can't find my brother sir, I think it's because a spell is stopping me but I can't work out what or how. All the usual detection charms I've tried have given...strange results and Finite Incantatum doesn't seem to work either...so I thought I'd come and ask you sir..."he trailed off in a whisper, "please sir, I could really use your help," he looked up at the potions professor desperate and on the verge of tears.

Snape felt his heart twinge a little at the boy's predicament, though he wasn't about to admit it in any shape or form.

"Do you have a place where you and your brother go regularly? It could be anywhere, your dorm, your common room, _an abandoned classroom_ you've _appropriated_ for your own use maybe?" He glared at the red-head with narrowed eyes. The boy shifted his feet guiltily under Snape's scrutiny. "Go there and leave your twin a message. If you can't see one another, I'm sure you can see something the other has affected."

Snape watched in fascination as the eureka moment hit the brat's mind like a wrecking ball, then to his everlasting shock the brat charged forward, _bearhugging _him, bellowing "thanks professor, you're the best!" before charging out of his office like a herd of rabid elephants. He was still standing there, rumpled and shocked five minutes later when the Headmaster stuck his head round the door.

"Are you all right" Dumbledore asked, his face creased with concern for the other man. Snape shook himself out of his stupor.

"I'm absolutely fine, Albus" he snarled, before going back to the wretched marking with a huff.

OOOOOO

Late on in their first year the twins had discovered the perfect secret hiding place to plot out their pranks and hide out from vengeful professors, as well as store any stashes of contraband. Tucked away in an abandoned classroom in a little used corner of the fourth floor was the cupboard (or it might have been an office given its size) that they had made their own and furnished with objects they had "liberated" from across the castle.

Fred crashed into the room, panting heavily having more or less sprinted all the way from the dungeons, desperate for a sign, anything at all really of his twin, his missing other half. Frantically scanning the room looking for some sign amongst the jumble of mismatched shelves, his eyes lighted on the appropriated blackboard that they had managed to half-inch and carry clean across the castle one particularly fruitful day. The perfect object on which to plan their pranks, it could be spelled clean to get rid of any incriminating evidence, only now it held a message in a familiar and comforting hand.

_Fred,_

_I'm OK!_

_Just getting food_

_STAY HERE_

_George._

Overcome by relief and the crushing stress of the day Fred burst into tears.

OOOOOO

Just as they had done as small children, the twins shared a bed that night, unable to cope with the idea of sleeping apart, of not knowing immediately that their other half was right there. Legs tangled and arms wrapped tight around the other, they clung to one another like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood, dozing fitfully.

"Fred, Fred" George whispered.

So close together were they pressed, George could feel the flutter of his brother's eyelashes on his cheek.

"We'll get whoever did this," he whispered comfortingly.

"Yes we will," Fred murmured back sleepily, "and when we do they're going to pay big time."

"Oh yes," George whispered gleefully, with an evil grin, "they most certainly will."

OOOOOO

The atmosphere within the Wizengamot was almost as grim as it had been at the height of the war. The members, swathed in their official regalia, seated in their allocated places, glared down at one of the worst criminals they had ever set eyes on.

Chained to the chair of the accused was William Suggs. Dirty and gaunt, he was a mere shadow of what he used to be, a broken shell of a man who had nothing to lose. Heavily dosed with Veritaserum he was currently being questioned by the Minister of Magic himself about the rather unpleasant case of the Mipps family. Carrow glowered at the ineffectual little man, who was currently asking variations of the same questions over and over again as he were trying not to dig too deep and reveal anything incriminating. It was incredibly irritating and a waste of time. Even Dumbledore, in his role as Chief Warlock, was obviously finding the Minister's bluster annoying.

Deciding to resolve the situation, Carrow rose to his feet, clearing his throat with a rumble like a distant avalanche. The Minister spluttered indignantly at being interrupted, glaring at his least favourite person.

"If I may?" Carrow asked more for politeness sake. Madam Bones and Albus Dumbledore exchanged glances, nodding their assent before settling back to see what Carrow would do. The large man was dangerous and unpredictable, but sometimes he dug pure gold. It was definitely worth the risk.

Carrow turned to the quivering, drooling wreck of a man and asked the question he had being itching to ask for the last half hour.

"How did Reginald Mipps die?" The rumble of his voice echoed around the suddenly very silent hall.

Suggs whimpered, even while under the Veritaserum. "He died from the injuries he sustained when he was...when he was...gang raped," he finished with a whisper, tears beginning to pour down his cheeks. The members of the Wizengamot stared in silent horror at this most unexpected of answers.

"Who committed the rape?" Carrow continued remorselessly.

Suggs was sobbing quietly now. "Geoffrey Goyle, Clancey Lovejoy, Quentin Nott and Augustus Crabbe" he whispered, trembling so hard the chains binding him to the chair clattered together.

"And what was the purpose of this action?" Carrow asked, his voice glacial in its coldness.

Suggs' glassy drugged eyes stared at him uncomprehendingly so Carrow rephrased the question, his voice impatient. "Why did those men rape the boy?"

"To...to...break his sister," Suggs stuttered, "they made her watch...tied her to a chair and...and laughed...and laughed at her when she begged for mercy...and I watched."

"Why did they desire to break Lucretia Mipps?" Carrow asked, already knowing, but doing so more for completeness sake.

"The family farm...Goyle wanted the farm, but Mipps wouldn't sell" Suggs replied, crying openly now, tears and mucus running down his face.

"And if Reginald Mipps had survived his treatment, what would have happened to him then?" Carrow asked out of curiosity, sensing a profitable line of enquiry.

Suggs eyes went wide with pure horror. "The brother...he would have been taken to a brothel."

"And what would he have done at the...brothel?" Carrow's lipped curled in disgust.

"A...a...prostitute. ," Suggs' face crumpled and he shrunk further into the chair. A wave of horrified murmurs rippled around the Wizengamot chambers. Carrow's intuition suggested there was more to it than that.

"Would he have been...altered in any way?" came the question, sickening many of the Wizengamot to the core with what it potentially implied.

"Y..yes, yes...potions...special potions to keep him small and sometimes...maybe potions to force him to take a partial animal form permanently...cats...cats are very popular," Suggs gasped, his tear and mucus streaked face lolling, his glassy eyes fixed on some distant nightmare only he could see.

"Was the treatment of the Mipps family a standard thing for your...associates?" Carrow's voice could have chilled molten iron.

"Y...yes!" sobbed Suggs, "yes...it...it was!"

The Wizengamot gasped collectively in horror, faces grey at the revelations.

"Who did your..._associates_," Carrow said the word with such distaste, "normally target?"

"Mud...muggleborns...and...and muggle-raised...half-bloods," Suggs gasped, "some...sometimes purebloods...but...but only...if...if they were...were isolated...weak...vulnerable...unconnected...poor" he finished with a whisper.

"And what did you receive in return for...assisting these men in their...activities?" Carrow's face was a terrifying mask. Here was someone who had executed cities and seen worlds burn in the name of justice.

"They gave me loans, gave me money," Suggs mumbled, "they...they paid off my...debts to the...the...goblins."

Carrow began to sit down, but paused, another question coming to mind. "Who owns the brothel?"

"Augustus Crabbe," whispered Suggs.

Carrow sat down.

The Wizengamot exploded as members shouted their outrage at the horrors that had come to light, some in denial, others demanding revenge, punishment, anything to right this outrageous wrong.

Carrow ignored them all, turning to his secretary. Faulks had smuggled in his agent Skeeter in her beetle form, hiding her in the collar of his robe, effectively bypassing the press blackout on the Suggs case. It was delightfully sneaky, particularly since he was sure Timothy thought he had managed it without him noticing. It was almost...what would an ordinary person say? It was almost adorable. Carrow smiled to himself.

OOOOOO

The manacles rattled against the ground, as the grim-faced Aurors led Suggs back to his cell, virtually carrying the man as he slumped between them utterly exhausted by the emotional turmoil of his day in court. The members of the Wizengamot hung around, talking frantically to one another in huddled groups, some accosting the Minister and the Chief Warlock as they tried to leave, bombarding them with questions and demands, some of them angry, others utterly horrified that such sordid goings-on could have gone on within Wizarding culture. After all, this was the sort of uncivilised thing muggles did.

Carrow and Faulks had managed to reach the chamber doors, not far behind the prisoner and his guards when it happened. A buzz of what Carrow was coming to regard as "magic" hit his senses as five masked figures unveiled themselves.

The shocked silence was abruptly broken as screaming, panicking Wizengamot members tried to stampede back into the chambers at the sight of Death Eaters in full regalia, wands drawn. Carrow sneered in disgust as the ganger idiots basked in the fear and panic they had caused. Taking advantage of their distraction, he took a small step back before leaping over the heads of the Aurors and their prisoner. Timothy had leapt into action too; Carrow could hear him shouting to the Aurors to get back to the Chambers to protect their charge followed by the sound of running footsteps, as the Aurors physically picked up their terrified prisoner and sprinted back towards the rapidly clearing doorway to the Wizengamot chambers and the forbidding figures of Albus Dumbledore and Amelia Bones.

Carrow grinned like a shark at the cultist scum, warp-fyre pooling in the palm of his hand, waiting for them to cast the first shot...so he could quite genuinely claim self-defence.

"Out of the way, you half-breed scum!" the masked figure second from the left snarled.

Carrow sneered at the filth, and their lack of understanding as to what he was. Their ignorance did not excuse their heresy, but it did make it more understandable, so he was going to take this wonderful opportunity to...teach them the error of their ways.

"You've had your warning, filthy mud-bloods," the same heretic crowed eagerly, "now you're going to get it!"

The Death Eaters took that as their cue and let loose with a volley of spells, curses and jinxes mainly designed to maim and humiliate. Unimpressed, Carrow swayed out of the way, flicking the warp-fyre towards one of the attacking cultists. The spitting blue fire engulfed the man, consuming him instantly; with barely a scream his blackened skeleton crumpled to the floor. Still moving, Carrow barrelled into the next attacker, his fist pounding down with such force it crushed the man's rib-cage with a series of nasty wet snaps and a gurgled scream, his life-less corpse slumping to the ground where it lay twitching slightly in a gradually spreading pool of blood.

The next Death Eater, on seeing the gruesome fate of his comrades turned tail and ran for his life tearing off his mask and robe while hurriedly recasting the disillusionment charm on himself, just as reinforcing Aurors rounded the corner at a sprint. As he disappeared, the coward looked back over his shoulder, eyes wild with panic. Carrow narrowed his eyes at the familiar face...Walden McNair. He definitely wouldn't get away the next time. Furious with himself, Carrow turned ready to deal with the other two, only to find Timothy had got there first.

When the Death Eaters had started throwing curses, Faulks had managed to dive out of the way, ending up on the floor among the splintered ruins of the visitor chairs that normally lined the corridor. As curses and hexes flew over his head he found himself face to face with a broken chair leg. A flash of inspiration crossed his mind, he was no magical dueller but...flicking his wand out, he hastily transfigured the piece of broken wood into a sabre. It was rough and ready and not likely to last very long but, it just needed to last long enough. Grabbing it, he leapt up with a shout of "die, heretic scum!" and charged the nearest spell throwing maniac, lashing out with his improvised blade. The heavy but blunt sword painfully opened up a jagged wound, effectively rendering the man's wand-arm useless. The Death Eater's howls of pain were abruptly cut off when Faulk's follow through resulted in the pseudo-sword being thrust through his belly. With a sad little moan the Death Eater crumpled up around the foreign intrusion, which was rapidly turning back into a chair leg. But Faulks was already turning, his wand pointing straight at the forehead of the last Death Eater standing.

"Surrender!" he snarled, not about to play nice.

The Death Eater took in his battered and blood-stained appearance and the chilling set of his face, steely eyes staring out at him from an expressionless mask. A frantic peek from the corner of his eyes showed his comrades dead or dying on the floor, and worst of all Carrow poised ready for action, hand full of shimmering fire, cocked just so. The huge man's predatory grin made the would-be Death Eater shiver in fear as cold sweat trickled down his spine.

"Do you surrender?" Faulks snarled again for the benefit of the idiot who appeared to be shaking uncontrollably.

Carrow's grin broadened. "Feel free to run" he said cheerfully brandishing the warp-fyre. The Death Eater whimpered slightly, before hastily dropping his wand on the floor and raising his hands. Carrow scowled; the filthy, cowardly, heretical scum didn't even have the back-bone to make a break for it, spoiling his fun.

The Auror reinforcements skidded to a halt, panting heavily from their sprint. With a thirty-seven seconds response time they were feeling rather pleased with themselves...except it looked as if the party had finished without them. They stared in increasing disbelief at the two corpses, one impaled on a chair leg for some strange reason, and the other a crumpled mess of bloody gore and limbs at odd angles, a little pile of sticky ash and skeletal remains...and a very panicky Death Eater prisoner who almost seemed pleased to see them.

"Lose the mask now, Death Eater," bellowed the lead Auror, his wand steadily pointed at the man's head, "and put it slowly on the ground! No funny business!"

Hands shaking the prisoner slowly removed the mask and carefully deposited it on the floor. Faulks bit back his outrage as he recognised the pompous prat from the Department of Muggle Relations that he had unfortunately had to deal with just that morning. Was he very surprised by this turn of events? Not really.

Everything was a bit of a blur after that, as he gradually came down from his adrenalin high, and the Aurors repeatedly questioned him. Faulks cringed in embarrassment when he had to explain what he meant when he'd shouted "_die heretic scum!" _He hadn't even realised he'd done it; Carrow had a lot to answer for. For the most part he tried to keep out of the way, nursing a soothing cigarette, and staying close to the wall where he could keep an eye on Carrow, who appeared to be having a shouting match with Dumbledore. The Chief Warlock seemed to be trying to explain the difference between reasonable force and outright murder. In Faulks' opinion, Dumbledore was wasting his breath, as Carrow had extremely strong opinions on what should happen to people who attacked him.

He was startled from his reverie by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Turning, he easily covered his surprise at finding Madam Bones eyeing him speculatively.

"May I help you Madam Bones?" he enquired politely, unsure what the head of the DMLE could possibly want with him.

"That was quite an impressive performance," Madam Bones mused, "quite impressive indeed for a secretary."

"You're very kind," Faulks mumbled, rather embarrassed at the attention.

"If you ever want to leave the cut-throat world of paper pushing, come and have a chat with me," she smiled warmly at the young man, "I can always find an opening for a wizard of your talents" She gave Faulks a friendly pat on the shoulder before strolling off.

Faulks stared after her; had the world gone mad, or was it just Carrow's dreadful influence spreading its tentacles?

OOOOOO

Snape looked up from his marking at the knock on the door, frowning at the interruption. "Enter!" he growled hoping he could resolve whatever problem one of his students had had now. But the opening didn't reveal one of his snakes, but rather the headmaster looking grimmer than he had ever seen him.

"Headmaster? Are you quite well?" Snape enquired, concerned, and more than a little worried as to what this could be about.

Dumbledore silently seated himself in the chair normally occupied by visiting students, looking at him intently over the top of his half-moon spectacles. The silence dragged out as the two men considered one another.

Eventually Dumbledore sighed heavily, looking older that the potions master had ever seen him. "Severus, have you ever made potions for Augustus Crabbe and Geoffrey Goyle?"

Snape considered the question carefully, now seriously concerned as to where this was going. Any conversation about Crabbe and Goyle senior was not going to be pleasant.

"Before I came to work for you..." Snape began slowly, "I made mainly healing potions for the ranks of the Dark Lord. In fact it was my main purpose, to heal his injured followers...and occasionally I made such potions as Veritaserum for him."

The Headmaster appeared unmoved, his expression grim, his eyes betraying that here was a very formidable wizard indeed.

"Since...since I have started to work for you...here at Hogwarts I have gone to great lengths to...distance myself as much as I safely can from the others" Snape continued, his voice soft in the oppressive quiet of his office. "I have no common interest with the...tastes of people like Crabbe, Goyle and Nott. The only one I have really kept in contact with was Lucius...and now Narcissa."

The Headmaster's expression did not change even slightly at his proclamation, so, gathering his courage, Snape continued. "As a teacher of this school I have a reputation that I need to uphold. I have no intention of bringing this educational institution into disrepute, due to some foolish action on my part."

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow, his eyes like steel. "And the potions business, that I know you run quietly on the side?"

Snape paused carefully, considering his words. "I provide potions for gentle-witches and their spouses who are having difficulties conceiving. Even St. Mungo's can't help them. They are often desperate, would do or give anything just to have their own child..." he paused swallowing heavily. "I provide difficult to procure potions and elixirs, some are normally exorbitantly priced, others are of...questionable legality, some are of my own invention... I try to provide these potions at an affordable rate. I do not do this for personal gain, I merely wish to..." he drew in a ragged breath." There are seven students, currently in the first and second years, who were born due to my assistance."

Dumbledore began to smile slightly, a hint of his normal warmth returning to his face. "Severus," he began.

Snape cut him off. "Albus, I would prefer it if it wasn't widely known that I provide these potions...I promised the prospective parents my discretion, that their difficulties would remain private..."

"Severus," Albus interrupted his voice practically glowing with warmth, looking at the normally glowering Snape with something akin to pride, "that is quite all right. I was merely concerned that you were involved in something unpleasant and rather...unsavoury,"

Snape could actually feel his cheeks heating up, in fact, much to his embarrassment, it rather felt like they were on fire. Desperately trying to get the conversation back on to more comfortable ground, he cautiously enquired, "Unsavoury?"

Dumbledore grimaced. "Mr Crabbe had being using potions of various kinds to...customise people he had procured for his...House of Convenience."

Snape froze. He had known Crabbe and his ilk were amoral scum, but..."What sort of customisation?" he asked warily, his face becoming more and more expressionless, as Dumbledore described what he'd learnt earlier that day. Grabbing a piece of parchment, he began to scribble down names, before plonking it down in front of the Headmaster.

"This one," he pointed to a name, "has the skills, but not the qualifications; he was never able to find someone willing to sponsor his mastery." Snape pointed to another name. "She was kicked out of the Guild of Potioneers for unethical experimentation, and now lives in the Knockturn area. This one has very similar sexual tastes to Mr Crabbe, I'm sure he'd be delighted to sample the _produce._" Snape said with a sneer. "He," he pointed to another name, "was arrested two years ago for possession of some of the ingredients needed for the puberty suppression philtre. I'm not entirely sure about the others, but I've heard their names come up in some of the Knockturn apothecaries. Even if they aren't involved, they might have been asked at some point."

Dumbledore carefully picked up the list. "Severus, thank you. This should prove invaluable." He smiled affectionately at the other man, who looked quite uncomfortable at the praise.

"Maybe I should give Mr Carrow a copy?" Snape suggested innocently, smirking in amusement at the Headmaster's horrified expression.

"Really, Severus!" Dumbledore huffed.

OOOOOO

Snape practically skipped into the Great Hall, the very first person to arrive for breakfast. The little brats were going home for the Christmas holidays tomorrow, and only one of his snakes was staying, guaranteeing nearly two weeks of child-free heaven. Just one last day of dealing with little idiots wasting ingredients and butchering basic recipes that they should be able to do in their sleep.

Contentedly, he settled down for his first of many cups of coffee that day. While scraping marmalade onto some toast, he looked up startled by the sound of post owls. It was still only seven o'clock, so why was the Daily Prophet being delivered now? Puzzled Snape unfolded the paper. _Special Early Edition_ ran along the top of the page in red letters, while the headline screamed **Free The Azkaban Eight! **Snape began to read, his toast and coffee forgotten.

The idea that eight completely innocent people might be currently residing in Azkaban, that the Ministry had known for months that these individuals were innocent, but was busily trying to hide the information chilled Snape to his very core, and if the "reliable eye witness account" that Skeeter claimed to have was to be believed the events leading up to these peoples' imprisonments were absolutely horrific...and this was by the standards of an ex-Death Eater. Equally disturbing was the suggestion that there had been an attempt to kill the key witness, foiled successfully by Carrow and his secretary Timothy Faulks...which seemed slightly odd as he remembered Faulks as an exercise shy, nerdy, book obsessed Ravenclaw, and subsequent meetings had done little to change his view. The idea of him killing a Death Eater with a transfigured chair leg seemed...slightly odd.

His good mood ruined, he flipped through the paper with his usual angry scowl sipping his now cold coffee...which he promptly choked on when he reached page eight.

_**Passed Away by Puffskein!**_

"_...the tragic death of Walden McNair, well know executioner at the Department for the Control of Magical Creatures..."_

Snape stared open mouthed at his paper unaware of the coffee now dripping off his chin...

"_...accidently swallowed a puffskein which lodged in his throat causing McNair to choke fatally..."_

Frantically he flipped back to the front page...

"_...only one of the Death Eaters escaped. Aurors are mounting a man-hunt as we speak..."_

...except that he knew for an absolute fact that McNair was...had been...a Death Eater...one of the very few still alive in fact; someone who delighted in butchering...well, anything really. He hadn't had to exactly try hard at his job as an executioner, it came rather naturally...

"_...our more delicate readers will be delighted to know that the puffskein survived and is expected to make a full recovery. Those wishing to adopt the perky little fellow, now named Sweetpea, should owl the Pretty Puffskein Rescue Home, Biddleswick, Nottingham..."_

Snape stared at the article, brow furrowed in disbelief. This smacked of Carrow, the odd but accidental seeming death that was gruesome...but strangely hilarious. The man's sense of humour was going to get him into serious trouble one of these days.

He looked up at the Great Hall, startled to find it completely empty. Shouldn't the little brats be streaming into breakfast by now with all the accompanying noise and chatter? He cast a quick Tempus, and found it to be nearly eight of the clock. There should at least be some of the older Ravenclaws arriving by now, and this was also the sort of time he like his Slytherins to arrive, but today...nothing.

A rustle and a surprised yelp to his left drew his attention, and he turned in his seat to find a young student, standing as if he had entered the hall from the _staff entrance, _hair sopping wet, towel draped around his hips and a toothbrush wedged in his mouth. The boy and Snape eyed one another in surprise for a moment.

"I am assuming," Snape said slowly, "that this is _not_ where you expected to be."

The student frantically nodded his head, eyes wide in apprehension, beginning to shiver in the cool air of the Great Hall. Snape sighed to himself; his carefully crafted reputation as a vindictive bastard was being utterly ruined. With a few flicks of his wand he cast a drying charm on the brat, and transfigured his towel into something more suitable, resulting in the boy gushing in gratitude at him.

"Just eat your breakfast," he growled at the revoltingly cheerful child who scampered off to the Ravenclaw table, and happily started tucking into toast, eggs and bacon.

Which left the question, where was everybody else?

OOOOOO

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the castle Albus Dumbledore was having extreme difficulties getting to breakfast. All he wanted were some crumpets and a cup of tea, or two, or three, but the doors were being supremely uncooperative this morning. He'd ended up in the Charms classroom first, quickly followed by a random piece of corridor on the fifth floor, a broom cupboard, a series of abandoned classrooms, another broom cupboard and now the library, which wasn't too bad he supposed, but still didn't provide him with crumpets.

On his travels he'd encountered a series of increasingly frantic students and members of staff, who were also having extreme difficulties getting to breakfast. It appeared that every single doorway in the castle had decided to be...playful this morning. Dumbledore suspected a great deal of assistance from a certain matching pair of red-headed hellions. After the rather amusing incident with the rubber ducks, he was beginning to expect almost anything from the two of them.

So he wasn't entirely surprised by the frazzled and rather upset group of students he found clustered in the Charms section busily trying to find a solution to their problem. It was rather refreshing seeing members of all four houses working together to solve a mutual problem.

"I recommend consulting the Warding and Ancient Runes sections too," he quietly murmured making the seventh year prefect jump a mile. Various relieved cries of "Headmaster!" came his way as the students crowded round in various states of dress and readiness for the day, telling him their tales of woes. One thing became abundantly clear; this prank was potentially dangerous, as one poor second year Slytherin had ended up in a locked broom cupboard, minus her wand, in an abandoned part of the fourth floor. If Filius hadn't been nearby and heard her frantic pounding on the door it could have been several days before she was found. He raised his hands for silence from the upset crowd of children.

"This problem with the doors is, I believe, castle wide, and so for the meantime it would be best if you all stayed here." He looked from face to face, his expression solemn. "Do not try to leave through any doors...or windows either. I do not know for certain they are similarly affected, but I would prefer if you did not take that risk."

One student began to open his mouth in protest. "Now," Dumbledore continued serenely, ignoring them,"I would appreciate it if you would continue with the research you have already begun, and broaden it to include warding and runes as I have suggested."

Strolling over to the nearby table laden with Charms tomes, he pulled over a piece of parchment and a quill and began to write.

"Miss Grant," he turned back to the prefect, "this is an emergency pass for the restricted section to assist in your research. Use it wisely," he said with a smile, "and now I need to start sorting this little difficulty out."

Fawkes suddenly appeared nearby in a burst of flames and a chirrup. Nodding to the students Dumbledore turned to his friend and familiar. "The kitchens first, I think."

Fawkes landed heavily on his shoulder trilling happily, and then the two disappeared in a burst of flames, leaving behind a group of unhappy students. Maisie Grant turned to the others with a sigh. The last year of school was busily turning into an utter nightmare; she dreaded to think what it was going to do to her NEWTs grades.

"Right," she sighed,"who's taking Ancient Runes?"

OOOOOO

Dinner that evening was an incredibly quiet affair; unusually so in fact, the students being far too tired and subdued to even indulge in idle chatter with their friends, their rather random attire and ruffled appearances adding unusual colour and texture to the Great Hall. Even the slow fall of little rubber ducks from the ceiling failed to produce much comment; Snape saw with some interest that their drifting fall and their colouring closely mimicked that of the snow which was actually falling outside.

Snape himself was feeling rather peevish, having spent the vast majority of the day crawling around the floor of the Great Hall, examining and trying to alter parts of the main ward stone of the castle itself. Whoever thought it would be a good idea to have the ward stone _in the floor_ should have been hexed to the ends of the earth; Snape was convinced his knees were never going to be the same again. Trapped in the Great Hall with only an overly inquisitive, overly friendly third year Ravenclaw for company; it was like some sort of terrible nightmare. All through the day, Terry Boot had chirped up with perky _cheerful _enquiries as to what he was doing, and oh-so-helpful suggestions; the brat had barely four months of Ancient Runes under his belt, though his suggestion that Pertho was contributing to the randomness of the doors' behaviour had proved to have merit. The impromptu research team stuck in the library had been invaluable as they worked through the available material, and teased out from it precisely what it was possible for the Weasley twins to do, rather than some of the staff members' overly clever ideas.

The other Heads of Houses had had to put up with being transported around the castle by the house elves in order to reach the anchor stones to make the resetting of the wards (minus the additions) permanent, all the while communicating their efforts with one another via patronus messages. It had required some extremely tricky coordination, and Snape knew the strain was getting to his colleagues when Minerva starting swearing nastily in Gaelic.

The remaining members of staff, meanwhile, did their best to keep the scattered student population calm and in good spirits. It seemed to have been a rather disconcerting experience for some of them. Snape looked along the table, smirking when his eyes lighted on Lupin. The wolf looked stunned and disbelieving, and was currently muttering to himself "...we never caused this much trouble at that age...even when we were trying. How the hell did they do it?"

Ah, the joy of seeing a Marauder out pranked, and to know the man had spent much of the day trapped in the fifth year Slytherin girls' dormitory...who made it plain they did not appreciate his company. Snape had to force himself not to laugh at the man.

The only castle residents who had actually enjoyed the situation had been the house-elves, who had been delighted to help out when asked, and had spent the day taking meals and snacks to trapped students and staff, transporting people around the castle and rescuing those in dangerous situations, one of the worst being a student who had become trapped on a partially flooded oubliette in the dungeons. The poor girl was still in the infirmary after her ordeal; it had been very lucky that she could swim.

Snape looked back over the school population, admiring the way drifts of the little white ducks were starting to build up in the corners; it was such a wonderfully quiet evening. It appeared that much of the school was looking forward to getting away from the castle tomorrow, but Snape had this niggling feeling at the back of his mind that the day's events were a sort of taster of what was to come. He had a feeling this was going to be one Christmas he wasn't going to forget in a hurry.

OOOOOO

The God-Emperor was enjoying the fresh air as he strolled through the city centre of Geneva. Since it was his day off, and he was trying to live as normally as possible, fitting in with the everyday life that his many colleagues enjoyed, he had decided to spend the day shopping...not that he intended to buy anything; he was more interested in people watching. The everyday activities of ordinary human beings, the way they interacted fascinated him, and the perfect to place to indulge this interest was one of the numerous cafes, where he could enjoy a nice cup of coffee while watching the crowds go by.

It was while taking a short cut to his favourite little cafe that he noticed it. Tucked between something non-descript and 19th century and a 60's concrete monstrosity (which was highly praised by international architectural critics, but known locally as the Carbuncle for good reasons), was a small timber framed inn. It was a type of building he hadn't seen in years, and was in fact making him feel quite nostalgic, so he sauntered over, his interest further increased by the appearance of several eccentrically dressed men with long flowing beards and brightly coloured robes. The increasing sensation of the "other", as the God-Emperor liked to think of it, became palpable in the air. The ordinary crowds of shoppers passed by, seemingly unaware of the strange old men and their wacky dress sense. Maybe it was some sort of force field or shield to shelter these "magical" people from the surrounding mundane world, for that was the only thing that it could be.

The God-Emperor murmured a polite "Good morning" to the eccentric pair as he strolled past them into the inn proper, carefully making himself as unmemorable as possible. As he entered, he was thrilled to see that the interior was just as traditional as he'd hoped, with many beautifully carved and painted wooden beams and carefully scrubbed tables and benches playing host to a strange and colourful crowd of patrons. The air practically fizzed with the feeling of otherness, of the place on the other side, of the "Warp" as a certain Mr Carrow might say. An archway at the back led to stairs down to a cellar, which seemed to be a rather popular location, if the rather oddly dressed people streaming in and out were to go by. Shrugging, the God-Emperor followed.

Five minutes later, and he found himself walking out into the old Roman City Centre of Genava, a place he'd last visited around 326AD going by the current calendar, if he was being honest with himself. The local magical population seemed to have appropriated it for their own use and renamed it Via Magicus; not very imaginative really.

Following the knowledge he gleaned from the thoughts streaming off the locals, he changed some money at the local bank. The goblin teller came over as quite polite and shy, possibly even a bit nervous, though the God-Emperor had to admit the service was both fast and efficient. With his small bag of the local money in hand, he was finally able to scratch the itch that had been niggling him for months...the procurement of more magical knowledge. He was willing to admit that he spent most of the rest of the day in the local bookshop, in fact the staff had to ask him to leave at closing, and he had managed to spend every single...knut that he'd exchanged.

He went without sleep for the rest of the week, obsessively reading through his embryonic magical collection. The next weekend he was back at the bookshop with another bag of galleons courtesy of the goblins, shy and jumpy creatures that they were. He was now convinced, absolutely convinced, that the future lay in combining the magical knowledge he could find here, with the scientific research and development of the rest of the human race. With this he could advance humanity by centuries, millennia even. The thought of it was...well, he hadn't been this excited since the building of Atlantis.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

Chapter 6

The stars twinkled in the heavens, the band of the Milky Way marching across the sky full of distant worlds, begging to be visited, explored, and brought under human domination. Carrow huffed to himself; and here _he_ was, stuck on Holy Terra, the available space going vessels primitive affairs, that though interesting he was sure, were not in any way practical for what he had in mind; they were more toys and curiosities for the devotees of the Machine Cult.

He wasn't used to the idea of staying on one planet indefinitely. Even if he had a mission that lasted a decade, he knew that at some point it would finish, and then he would move elsewhere; always chasing after the enemies of the Imperium, those who would destroy humanity, whether from within or without. He knew it was selfish and self indulgent, but now it wasn't possible, he ached to be on a starship. If he closed his eyes, he could virtually feel the hum of the ship engines through the soles of his boots, sense the closed in quality of the plasteel lined corridors, taste the tinny stale quality of air recycled _ad nauseum,_ and tainted with the scents of humans living in confined spaces, with not very good plumbing, for prolonged periods of time.

And then there was the thrill of stepping out onto an unfamiliar world, the sight of strange fauna and flora, the different quality of the light, the differences in gravity, slightly heavier, slightly lighter than Terran standard, the scent of the air bringing with it signs of life, whether it be heavy with the rich tang of a living world, or sickly and tainted by Chaos, bringing with it the promise of battle, the destruction of the enemy...

Carrow squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to bring himself under control; he was an Inquisitor, an Adeptus Astartes, he accepted whatever trials the God-Emperor sent his way...even this...

He looked back up at the heavens with a deep sigh, trying to derail his current train of thoughts. Was this what the God-Emperor himself had gazed upon, had inspired his undertaking of the Great Crusade? He could always ask, he supposed, though he always felt that he was committing sacrilege for asking such personal questions.

A quiet rustle nearby announced the arrival of an Auror trying very hard to be quiet. Carrow's head snapped round, the lenses of his helmet gleaming balefully in the starlight. The Auror quailed momentarily before composing himself.

"Sir," he began with only a slight quaver in his voice, "we are in place to begin."

Carrow gave the man a curt nod, before striding away, not so much as a rustle or the snap of a twig to indicate his passage. The Auror watched unnerved, as the gigantic armoured monstrosity disappeared among the trees towards the Crabbe family residence, with silent cat-like grace.

OOOOOO

As soon as Augustus Crabbe had received warning on his imminent arrest, he had raised the centuries old wards on the family residence, effectively cutting the estate off from the outside world, and frustrating the efforts of the Aurors, who were now gathered along the ward edge. Personally, Carrow wasn't terribly impressed with the defences around the manor house; they were only four hundred years old, and it was common knowledge that anything that young was flimsy and poor quality. Now, if the wards had been a couple of millennia old, then he might have had a challenge on his hands, and that was always a good thing.

The Ministry ward breakers were at this very moment searching for the ward anchors, heavily disguised pieces of granite, which were rune inscribed and heavily enchanted; much like the anchor of a ship, they stabilised the wards and stopped it from drifting or unravelling. Being so vital, they were also heavily protected and difficult to find. The assembled Aurors scouted the periphery assisting in the search for any nasty surprises, while also trying to guard Madam Bones, who had insisted on overseeing this operation herself...and bringing Allesandor Carrow...and Carrow had brought his people...who were now lurking among the trees and undergrowth, grim and dark people, Vampires and even a Werewolf..._together_...the man was obviously a rune short of an aett, having creatures like that around him.

OOOOOO

Faulks sighed to himself. He could practically feel the frustration radiating off the others at the current situation, and just for once he, the Slink Alley coven, and Wulfric were in complete agreement. Not only were they all in for a long and uncomfortable wait as the Ward Breakers found an anchor stone, but the Aurors were clomping around like a herd of buffalo with no apparent regard for secrecy or discretion or covertness, or...in fact he could see three...four wand tips glowing with the soft light of small lumos charms from where he was hiding behind a large oak tree. With the lovely new scope he'd recently bought, he'd be able to take the idiots out no trouble at all. In fact it was very tempting to do so, just to teach them a lesson. The teeth aching whine was the only indication that Carrow had arrived, like some sort of giant murderous ghost. Faulks swore the man muttered "bloody amateurs" as he strode past, signalling them to stay in their current position and _wait_.

OOOOOO

Carrow carefully worked his way around the perimeter of the ward, gliding from cover to cover, making his way soundlessly towards the newly discovered ward stone, nothing more than a shadow among shadows.

Round the unremarkable slab of granite swarmed a small group of people, quietly bickering over their next course of action, completely oblivious to his approach. Luckily for them, he was the only dangerous being in the vicinity.

"May I try?" he growled softly, looming over them with a smirk. The Ward Breakers leapt out of their collective skins in a most satisfactory manner; one even shrieked slightly, before stuffing his knuckles in his mouth in an embarrassed attempt at stifling the sound. Carrow gently shoved past them to the stone itself.

Crouching down for a better look, it was, as he had thought, an unassuming piece of granite, easily overlooked by the casual eye; but there was definitely something more to this lump of igneous rock than that...reaching out with one giant armoured hand, he examined the rock again with his more preternatural senses.

Intricate and interlinking circles of runes bloomed into life, resembling closely the texture of a mail coat, or maybe that ridiculous child's toy, a slinky, that he'd only recently had the pleasure of discovering. He pushed further with his sight, following the links as they led him deeper into the defences of the place revealing its very nature; multiple nested wards, so many of them in fact, that it was possible that each generation had added one, none of them particularly powerful on their own, but together, interlinked and working in concert, they were very strong. Rather like the Imperial Guard in a way, he thought; unimpressive alone, but given the numbers, they could over-run worlds.

And like anything of this nature, they had a weakness, so if he applied pressure just here...he forced his mind into the flaw and, with just his strength of will, _twisted_.

OOOOOO

The Ministry Ward Breakers looked on in anger and injured professional pride. Who did this man think he was? They'd tried protesting with him, only to be ignored...and now the ward stone was lighting up like a Christmas tree, the man himself ignorant of the fat blue sparks crawling across his helmet and dripping from his eye pieces...and then the magical pressure in the air itself began to rapidly rise. This was not good, not good at all. As one, they turned towards the Crabbe family residence as the domes of the wards became visible to the naked eye, runes shimmering over them like oil on water, and then actinic light began to spill from the windows of the house itself. The senior Ward Breaker stared in growing horror. "Oh, _shi_..." he began.

OOOOOO

Carrow weathered the psychic backlash from the shattering wards stoically; his armoured form unmoving in the face of the invisible wind which tossed the nearby wizards off their feet. As it started to die down, he sprang to his feet, leapt over the cracked and melting ward stone, and sprinted towards the now vulnerable house. A few shapes with slathering jaws and gleaming eyes leapt out of the darkness at him, but he battered them aside uncaring. Reaching the main doors, he didn't even slow down but, putting his shoulder into it, hit the ancient oak full force. The aged timber which had withstood much over the years splintered as three tons of ceramite armour hit it at speed.

Carrow screeched to a halt in the destroyed remains of the main entrance hall, the once grand staircase a shattered and unstable ruin, delicate furniture and trinkets smashed and pulped against the walls, family portraits slashed and pierced by flying debris, all caused by the catastrophic failure of the wards.

Growling in annoyance at the now crumbling stairs and the very unstable looking landings, Carrow started a systematic search of the downstairs, scouring room after room for signs of occupation, dead or alive. He carefully scouted through ostentatious rooms full of dark and opulent furniture, costly trinkets and rich fabrics. The Crabbe family had apparently done well from the family patriarch's misdeeds.

When he found the kitchens, to his faint horror there were several house elves slumped unconscious on the floor and against cupboards and other kitchen fixtures as if they had been caught by the psychic backlash as they worked. Grimacing, he carefully backed out of the room, careful not to rouse the irritating creatures, memories of the Lodge elves coming to mind. The over-emotional little beings were constantly trying to hug him, as well as obsessing over his eating habits, not to mention their on-going battle with Mrs Thorpe the house-keeper and her army of cleaning ladies for domination of the dusting. Shuddering slightly, he crept away.

Within a sitting room, full of dainty and very breakable ornaments crowded on rosewood what-nots with spindly turned legs, he found a locked door. It refused to wield to his initial probing, and the opening was far too small for him to effectively charge, so backing up slightly, he lunged forward, putting his foot through the recalcitrant barrier. With a nasty splintering sound, the door gave way, the remains hanging limply off the twisted hinges, with more of the wooden remnants coming loose and crashing to the floor as Carrow shouldered his way through.

Beyond lay a study lined with books, a heavy and expensive desk sitting in the middle of the ample space, surrounded by luxurious woollen rugs. Behind the desk, on the layered carpets was sprawled a large man, gone to seed in his middle age, and bleeding profusely from his eyes, nose and ears. Carrow carefully picked him up by the scruff of his neck.

OOOOOO

Augustus Crabbe fought his way back to consciousness after being hit by...whatever that blast was, only to find he was suspended above the floor by at least three feet. He blinked rapidly, desperately trying to clear his head, as he realised that the perpetrator of his current state of suspension was the person he had come to loathe above all others, even Dumbledore, one Allesandor Darius Carrow. Snarling, he pulled out his wand, intending to deal harshly with the jumped up half-blood, and put him in his place where he belonged, only to have his wand almost immediately pulled from his fingers before he could so much as think of a curse. He resorted to the verbal variety instead.

Listening to the man's colourful language, Carrow idly wondered if anybody would notice if he "accidentally" applied Crabbe's head to the wall. It certainly wouldn't do the man's intelligence any harm.

OOOOOO

The vampires had returned to the Lodge, not wanting to prolong close contact with the Aurors. This left Faulks, Wulfric Deer, and Natasha to watch over Carrow and run interference between him and anyone or anything he might suddenly decided to interact with.

They currently were carefully, but surreptitiously, watching their employer while he eyed up the grotesque fountain in the Ministry atrium. Carrow had made no secret of his dislike of the piece of dubious municipal sculpture, and personally both Faulks and Deer agreed with his assessment. It appeared the ugly thing's days were numbered if Carrow's thoughtful and calculating looks were anything to go by.

Giving them a wide berth, the bickering and arguing Aurors and various Ministry personnel milled around them; on paper, Operation Crabbe was a roaring success. The target had been apprehended swiftly and efficiently, with minimal injuries or fatalities to the Auror team. The only blight on this otherwise highly successful operation had been the deaths of Lady Crabbe and the Crabbe heir, Vincent, who had been discovered in an upstairs bedroom dressed in their finest, and each clutching a small empty vial. The Auror medical team had given poisoning as an initial cause of death, but one thing was very clear; both had been dead before the wards had fallen.

The Aurors themselves disagreed vehemently with this entire assessment; in their opinion, a complete outsider, someone who had been brought along, as they understood, merely to observe, had hijacked their operation and bulldozed their way through it with no concern for protocol or jurisdiction or...

It wasn't just the way Carrow had interfered with the ward-breaker team, and detained the wanted man; it was the way his team, people who he had apparently trained himself, had brutally and efficiently killed the Manor's guard dogs and the small rabble of Knockturn alley scum that Augustus Crabbe had gathered to augment his defences. Not a single one survived, cut-down as they had been, by precise and efficient bursts of fire from the ugly muggle weapons Carrow's people carried.

And so the argument raged. Should they all be arrested for disrupting an official Auror mission? Should they be condemned to the Kiss for daring to kill Wizards, no matter how lowly, with muggle weapons? Or should they be commended for their actions?

Madam Bones turned down them all down flat, all the while staring hungrily at the large man. She had heard stories of his exploits on the many foreign missions he had completed for the DMLE. Much of it had sounded like ridiculous exaggerations, though the man and his team clearly got results. So when she invited him along for tonight's mission, she'd been hoping to see him in action...and she hadn't been disappointed. The way he'd handled the wards...well, it wasn't subtle in any way, shape or form...but it was quick. Now if she could just sweet-talk him into some sort of permanent partnership with the DMLE...

OOOOOO

When Dumbledore arrived at the Ministry, he wasn't prepared for the chaos that greeted him. Clutching yesterday morning's copy of the Daily Prophet, he urgently scanned the milling crowd for the one person he desperately wanted to talk to. And Carrow was easily found, as he stood a clear head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, looming over everybody in his bulky armour, looking thoroughly bored, and considering the speculative looks he kept shooting the Fountain of Magical Brethren, Dumbledore suspected the thing was likely to suffer some Carrow patented _improvements _in the near future. As he shouldered his way through the arguing crowd, he spied Cornelius Fudge surrounded by a small group of particularly irate people shouting for Carrow's immediate arrest, some even demanding that he should be given the Kiss without delay. Fudge stuttered and blustered, obviously unhappy at the idea of losing his only major financial backer for the upcoming summer elections, not to mention the idea of actually telling Carrow he was under arrest, which Dumbledore could agree was not something to be undertaken lightly.

As he got closer Dumbledore spotted something that was really, truly odd; Amelia Bones, of all people, lurking in the shadows, eyeing Carrow with an expression of such possessive hunger that it was practically Slytherin. It seemed Carrow had made quite the impression, and was now in considerable danger from conniving and sneaky recruitment drives from a hardcore Hufflepuff. Dumbledore had found over the years that it was extremely foolish to underestimate the average Hufflepuff; their quiet natures had vast and terrifying depths, and when they put their minds to it, they could out-scheme a Slytherin, out-think a Ravenclaw, and for sheer bravery in the face of overwhelming odds...well Madam Bones herself was a fine example of that. Though, of course, it was all dependent on how eager Carrow was to work more closely with the DMLE.

Halting in front of the intimidating mound of metal, Dumbledore held up the paper, the front headline, _Free the Azkaban Eight!, _flashing madly.

"May I have a private word?" asked Dumbledore, his voice deceptively mild.

Carrow considered the Headmaster's request for a moment, looking out over the squabbling crowd of petty bureaucrats. Without a word, he turned and strode towards his office, Dumbledore following behind.

OOOOOO

To Dumbledore's consternation, Carrow's outer office had changed yet again. Now doubled in size, a flimsy partition had been erected, separating the waiting area and young Timothy's desk from a new office with a tiny kitchenette, several desks and chairs, strange beige boxes, and what Dumbledore thought might be television sets, wires trailing everywhere like some sort of crazy cat's cradle, some of them leading to an anonymous cupboard, while others led to a large free standing beige box which seemed to be covered in mysterious flaps and slots and buttons and flashing lights...it was all so terribly muggle, Arthur Weasley would love it. And then there was the inexplicable background hum, which mingled painfully with the eye-watering whine of Carrow's armour.

His distracted musings on Carrow's mystery office fittings were interrupted by a growling rumble from above his head. Craning his neck revealed the familiar scarred and green eyed visage of Carrow staring down at him intently, expectantly waiting for him to make the first move. It was one of Carrow's more annoying habits.

Well, two could play that game, and so he smiled benignly up at Carrow over the top of his glasses, while holding the paper up, its loud and flashing front page clearly visible.

Eventually Carrow huffed in annoyance. "How may I assist you, Headmaster Dumbledore?" he ground out.

Dumbledore smiled up at him. "The Wizarding World has survived several periods of political and social unrest, the first during the forties with Grindlewald's rise to power, and his subsequent reign of terror on the continent; the second of course was during the seventies, with Voldemort's activities in this country, the disappearances, the disorder, attacks on muggles..."

"Your point, Headmaster?" Carrow's face was a stony mask.

"...and now we have another period of apparent instability, strange disappearances, odd deaths, the undermining of the current administration, even strange goings on at the Ministry itself...my, only a week ago we had the bizarre occurrence of the dancing rats in the Department for International Cooperation. I had the privilege of seeing it with my own eyes, definitely one of the better performances of Swan Lake that I've seen..."

Carrow opened his mouth to interrupt, but Dumbledore held up his hand, forestalling him.

"...and the only connection between all of these events...well, I can't prove anything of course, but I rather suspect that you know rather more about the current goings on in the Ministry that you are likely to admit to."

"And?" Carrow asked, scowling down at the smaller man.

Dumbledore sighed heavily, his face betraying his age, "I have worked very hard to keep things stable, to keep morale up, to stop the different political factions from outright attacking one another, to try and make this a more open and accepting society...it has not been easy."

He sighed heavily. Carrow watched him carefully, his face unreadable.

"I've had various people fighting me all the way," Dumbledore continued, "being as obstructive as they could possibly be. The compromises I've had to make..." his face crumpled even more, "I'm aware you dislike the current Werewolf legislation and I'm very much in agreement with you. Originally it called for the culling on sight of all werewolves; it took a lot of fighting to turn it into its current form..."

Dumbledore stared up at the larger man, hands behind his back, his expression solemn.

"...but now people are getting jittery, nervous, they're looking over their shoulders, not knowing what to expect...and when people become frightened their actions can often be...unpredictable."

"Headmaster Dumbledore," Carrow rumbled, his glacial eyes wary, "I am merely...cleaning house. It is something that has been long overdue here...and when I am finished, I will build anew in its place. I respect all the work you have done. If not for you and your followers, I'm certain the Wizarding World on this little island would have fallen into darkness...but now...now that I," he raised a hand to his chest with a small thunk, "...am here, the future of the Wizarding World is assured." he said with certain finality.

Dumbledore stared at the sheer arrogance of the man. "And I take it you have much useful experience of this sort of thing?" he said disbelievingly.

"Yes, I do," Carrow replied, his face unreadable.

They lapsed into silence, staring at each other, waiting for the other to make a move.

"And how precisely would you go about gaining experience of...disposing of errant governments...and why?" Dumbledore asked apprehensively, not sure that he really wanted to know the answer.

Head tilted to one side Carrow considered his answer carefully. "It is like curing cancer," he said slowly, "but a cancer on society itself. Take your situation for example; your government has become riddled with the tumours of cultists, biding their time, spreading their rot, quietly, secretly growing and expanding, taking over where ever they can, until...there is nothing left." He shifted closer to the smaller man. "And that is where the Inquisition comes in. We excise the cancer, burn out the tumours; stop the rot before it can get hold," he leaned down to Dumbledore, "because a corrupt government is _always _a sign of something far, _far_ worse." He straightened to his full height. "And though it is not my area of expertise, that is why I have so much experience of..._disposing_ of corrupt politicians and the like; and of course afterwards," he bared his teeth in a fanatical smile, "it is our task to rebuild the new ruling body in the image of the God-Emperor himself...and I am just the man for the job. Rest assured you are in safe hands." He gave Dumbledore a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

OOOOOO

Fawkes watched in fascination as his faithful servant frantically searched his desk for a usable quill. The wretched things had a tendency to walk, and generally at the most inconvenient moments too. Dumbledore was increasingly coming to the conclusion that Xenophilius Lovegood was onto something when he had described the Lesser Blue Squiffin in his Quibbler article "_Incommon Household Pests and How to Combat Them", _a strange and furry creature that subsisted solely on writing quills, using its prehensile tongue to winkle them out of locked drawers. What really surprised him about that article was that Xeno had failed to mention the creatures' talents as highly specialised Seers; after all, how else would they know when would be the most inconvenient moment to eat one's stationary?

Ah, finally, hidden underneath a bag of lemon sherbets and some old letters from his brother was a quill, and not too bent either. And now for the letter; did Carrow's Swiss friend understand the depths of the man's devotion, and the lengths he would go to prove it?

Well there was only one way to find out...

_Dear Mr God-Emperor..._

OOOOOO

Using the chaos and noise from all the students desperate to go home for Christmas and escape the madness that Hogwarts was apparently descending into, at least for a few weeks, Ron and Hermione huddled together, as they plotted yet another painful and humiliating prank on the Dreadful Duo, or the Prankster Princes, as Fred and George liked to think of themselves.

Both had had unpleasant experiences the previous day, when the castle doors had decided to develop a personality, and dump them in unexpected places. Hermione had spent most of the day stuck in an abandoned classroom, in her thin cotton pyjamas, without her wand. By the time the house elves had found her, she was starting to develop a little bit of a fever, and a massive desire to do extreme violence to who ever had put her in this situation. As a result she had spent the night in the Infirmary. Ron, on the other hand, had found himself stuck in a girl's lavatory on the fourth floor, with a small group of Hufflepuff first year girls, who never spoke a word to him, but spent the day huddled together in a corner, whispering to each other. Every so often they would all turn and stare at him, before bursting into hysterical giggles. Needless to say, the experience did not have a positive effect on Ron's temper.

Consequently, both were in complete agreement that the twins needed to share their pain. Somehow, that morning's howler, courtesy of Mrs Weasley, just wasn't enough.

"I still think we should wait," Hermione murmured round her toast and marmalade, "let things die down a bit, lure them into a false sense of security." Her heart wasn't really in it, though.

Ron, sensing her lack of conviction, saw an opening and dived in. "They're going to be so distracted with detentions and howlers and everybody being really angry with them, that it'll be much easier to get past their guard." He paused in his slow stirring of his porridge. "And there's always that time delay trick," he added thoughtfully.

Hermione stayed silent, listlessly pulling her toast to pieces but Ron could tell she was thinking it over. She looked up with narrowed eyes. "And it would be a simple thing to wait until they're distracted...any suggestions?"

Ron grinned shyly. "Well, I've found an interesting charm that's got possibilities..."

OOOOOO

"Your brother's in the living room, fast asleep probably." Mrs Faulks frowned at the thought, as she looked fondly at her older son. "That new boss of his is far too demanding of him. Really, the poor boy has barely had a day off since he started this job. At least he's now well paid enough to be able to make silly fashion statements, though I'm not sure the Military Goth look really suits him."

She turned back to the military operation that was the organising of the Christmas Dinner, with its innumerable trimmings, in preparation for the next day. Seeing his mother chatting happily to her daughter-in-law Fiona, who was busily clinging to the wriggling bundle of their son, Matthew quietly sneaked away with an affectionate smile. Fiona glared at her retreating husband's back; from what Mum No.2 had told her, poor Tim, never very lucky, was getting quite stressed with his new job. The last thing he needed was his big brother teasing him on top of it, and sometimes Matthew, though she loved him dearly, just took the sibling rivalry too far.

OOOOOO

Matthew Faulks hadn't seen his brother in nearly two years what with one thing and another. Being posted out to Germany hadn't really helped, but then Tim had also moved into his own flat down in London's magical area, while he tried to get a better job than cleaning toilets. It hadn't been looking at all promising until recently, and he and the rest of the family had been considering some sort of intervention. But now it seemed as if his dorky little brother had struck gold, well-off enough to dress oddly? Matthew grinned to himself; there was some serious teasing material there.

Creeping into the living room he was in luck. Sprawled out in a chair was Timothy the Sorcerous Swot...except...what the _hell_ had Tim done to himself? Matthew stared in disbelief at the gaunt and oddly clad figure of his brother, slumped in the armchair closest to the fire. The deep shadows under his eyes, the myriad small facial scars, from a knife maybe, his anorexic figure and pallid complexion, all gave the impression of a well dressed zombie...and his brother's clothes...

Matthew scowled. He hated it when civilians wore anything military, even if it was just camo trousers as a fashion thing, and there was his _own brother_ wearing a braid encrusted _dolman _of all things. At least it was plain black, with no insignia or rank displayed. The rest of his brother's clothing was equally odd with the heavy boots, greave like armour, and a blue and bronze sash...and all of it was battered, threadbare, and had obviously seen better days. Had he deliberately bought it looking like that, or...it just didn't seem in character for Tim, someone he'd always thought was a staunch M&S man, not at all prone to fashionable excess...well, no matter. Matthew's face split in an evil grin; there were still little brothers to wind up, and so he pounced on the sleeping figure.

The sudden sensation of flying was a real surprise, but nothing to the taste of elderly woollen carpet. Stunned and shocked, Matthew spat out bits of fluff from Mum's prize Axminster that he had literally taken a bite out of. Somehow little Timmy had gone from comatose to ninja zombie secretary faster than he could blink, resulting in his current close examination of the rug, with his arms locked behind his back, and the pricking of something sharp at his throat...was that a knife?

Above him, he felt Tim tense and shift, almost shaking himself, before shifting and releasing him. Had the prat only just woken up? He scrambled to his feet, still spitting out bits of carpet.

"What the hell?" he snarled at his little brother in disbelief.

Timothy stared at him his face an emotionless mask, his eyes red-rimmed and feverish bright.

"My apologies," he murmured, settling his jacket more smartly, in a way Matthew had a suspicion was more embarrassed than anything else. Turning, Timothy stalked out of the living room in search of coffee and less excitable company, his back ramrod straight.

Matthew watched as his brother strode away, eyes narrowed in suspicion at his mannerisms and gait. What the hell had Timmy got involved with? And who the hell had managed to turn his little brother, the biggest, bookiest, but also kindest and gentlest nerd he knew, into a lean, mean, killing machine, and when did he get to kill them?

OOOOOO

Exhausted, Faulks slumped in front of his laptop, the clunky beige monstrosity that he had brought with him so he could finish up the last of the year's paperwork. He despised the object, since it seemed to spend most of its time crashing, though quite a bit of his resentment was due to his feeling of being chained to the wretched object. It looked particularly out of place in his childhood bedroom with its dinosaur theme that he'd never quite managed to persuade his parents he was too old for. There were ABBA and David Bowie posters on the walls still, for Merlin's sake.

Sighing, he rubbed his hands over his face. Why did his brother have to go and do that? His nerves were now jangling uncomfortably, causing him to jump at the slightest sound. The feeling of the closed door behind him while he typed had become too much in his alert state, and so he'd had to pull the desk round so at least he had blank wall behind him. Living in a house for so many months with a compulsive prankster, with no sense of boundaries, limits, or even appropriateness, had made him a very paranoid man.

The new typing pool had really taken a huge weight off Faulks, taking over all the handling of the routine documents pertaining to life within the Ministry, leaving him with just Carrow's personal correspondence to deal with. The remaining half box was the last of this year's he would hopefully have to deal with...and some of it was leaving him scratching his head.

Faulks knew Carrow had an extensive spy network within the Ministry itself, and he knew quite a few of their code names. He had even handled meetings with a couple of them. But some of these reports contained information that pertained to the mundane non-magical world; America, Russia, various European countries. They appeared to be information gathering at the moment, but Faulks was under no illusion that that would probably change.

Sometime later, Faulks sat back, rubbing at his tired eyes, mind racing with questions. Carrow had an even larger network of spies and informants that he'd previously thought. Who were these people? What roles did they play? When on Earth had Carrow found the time to recruit these people? Was this a test? After all Carrow had given him these documents to translate and type up himself, and Carrow never did anything without a reason. And if it was a test, did he have to let Carrow know? In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it might be enjoyable to leave Carrow in the dark, wondering whether he knew...and then he could drop tiny little hints, which the man was bound to pick up on...and then he was bound to try and find out whether he knew, his natural curiosity just wouldn't allow him not to know...and the resulting dancing around the issue would wind Carrow up something shocking.

Faulks' chuckle died on his lips, as he realised that Carrow had now been on his own for nearly two days, with only the Slink Ally coven and a half-grown tiger for company...and with the Wizengamot on holiday for the next fortnight there was nothing to occupy the man...and when he had nothing to occupy him Carrow was rather good at thinking up things to do...which was an utterly terrifying thought in and of itself. Faulks shuddered to himself.

"Dinner's on the table!" Matthew snarled at his brother, as he crashed through the bedroom door. "Didn't you hear us shouting?" He stared suspiciously at his younger brother, who was glaring nastily back at him, having jumped out of his skin, reaching for weapons he wasn't carrying.

"I'll be with you momentarily," Timothy replied stiffly, eyeing his brother menacingly. Matthew returned the look with interest; he was so getting the nerdy little brat back for the carpet munching incident earlier. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. What was his brother up to...was that what he thought it was?

"A laptop? Cool!" he exclaimed. "But I didn't think Wizards used..."

"Out." The air practically froze around Timothy as he stared his older brother down. Knowing when to pick his fights, Matthew backed off, watching over his shoulder, as his younger brother took out his wand and did something strange and _magical_ to his bedroom door.

OOOOOO

In the frilly pink sanctuary that was Delores Umbridge's office, Carrow stepped back and admired his handiwork, brush in one hand and jar of carefully diluted poison in the other. The pastel coloured kittens on the decorative plates lining the walls watched the curious black-clad figure with interest, before going back to their games.

Having seen a golden opportunity present itself, he'd decided to put to use part of a gift from Snape that he'd received during the past summer. The man had such excellent taste in poisons that it seemed a pity to let them go to waste. He was still, however, trying to work out why the cheery "now you are 13" card that had come with the box of crystal vials was amusing. Timothy had grinned evilly at him, and insisted he display it on his desk. Shaking his head at the strangeness of normal humans, he gave Umbridge's desk a few more brushstrokes of poison. Maybe he should coat her stationary as well, he thought, eyeing the level of liquid in his jar carefully. He should definitely apply some to the arms of her chair.

Once everything had dried, it was the work of moments to put all the desk clutter back exactly how he had found it. It was unlikely Umbridge would ever notice anything...and by the time she did? Well, it would be far too late.

He carefully eased himself out of the door, and reset the basic security ward scheme; a job well done.

As he paced through the empty corridors, he was disgusted at the lack of dedication that the vast majority of the Ministry's Administratum showed towards their work. He'd seen a single elderly archivist, for Throne's sake. The entire Magical government needed a drastic change in attitude. And once his plans for Umbridge came to fruition, he would be perfectly placed to be the one to do the shaking. The idea alone made him grin in eager anticipation.

He was still grinning to himself when he slipped into the main Atrium. Completely devoid of its usual crowds of people, Ministry employees, gawkers, Aurors, the large space echoed, the silence only broken by the sound of the fountain of "Magical Brethren". Carrow sneered at the sculpture. It had to be one of the worst examples he'd ever seen, and that was saying something...and it was currently completely unguarded. Carrow grinned evilly to himself. He'd been itching to try out some of his new _permanent_ charm work.

OOOOOO

Snape woke with a snarl, cursing the interruption of his traditional Christmas morning lie-in, the one day in the year when he allowed himself to lounge in bed. The source of the noise continued unabated, a low rhythmic roar as if many bellowing elephants had got together for a carol recital. Even putting the pillow over his head failed to blank the offensive racket. Giving into the disruption, he sat up, glowering in the direction of the disruption, only to stare flabbergasted at the, to him, enormous pile of cheerfully wrapped presents that sat at the end of his bed. Normally, he only received a small something from Albus and Minerva, generally of the alcoholic variety. He blinked his eyes in disbelief, wondering if he was in some way imagining things. Deciding to leave the pile of seasonal jollity alone for the moment, he went about his morning routine.

Softly pattering out of the bathroom swathed in his sensible dressing gown and slippers, he had to walk past the present pile again. It seemed to be jeering at him by this point, reminding him of all the lonely years before, where only his employer really remembered him. He could see what was likely to be the Headmaster's offering wrapped in violently purple wrapping paper complete with animated shooting stars, and there was Minerva's gift in Gryffindor red and gold, the beautifully wrapped one in silver possibly from Narcissa, but the others? He couldn't even begin to guess...

By lunch time he still hadn't unwrapped his little horde, though he had moved them through to the living room. He had spent an unsettled and restless morning debating whether to open the wretched things or no. He had checked them for anything untoward, and then had them checked by a house elf just to be doubly sure. Wonder of wonders, they had all proved to be completely harmless. With a snarl, he made his decision; grabbing the nearest one, roughly wrapped in gold paper, he set to work.

After a nasty swearing fit at dunderheads who felt the need to use most of a roll of spell-o-tape to wrap anything, his efforts revealed a small and amateurish portrait of himself apparently brewing a potion. The would-be artist didn't have the greatest grasp of the human anatomy ever, but they had managed to depict the intense concentration that proper brewing needed. The little inscription on the back though...hands trembling slightly he carefully placed Ginny Weasley's gift on the mantelpiece, slightly hidden behind the photograph of Lily twirling in the snow.

Minerva and Albus had sent their usual seasonal offerings, which were as alcoholic as expected. The elegantly wrapped gift turned out to be from Narcissa, much to his complete lack of surprise, and when opened revealed a beautiful black cashmere scarf with the anchoring runes of a warming charm skilfully and discretely embroidered on each end. Another similarly wrapped gift contained expensive dragon hide gloves from Draco. The thoughtfully chosen gift just confirmed his suspicions; taking Draco to France was one of the best things Narcissa had ever done for her son. The differing atmosphere at Beauxbatons, and the lack of his father's influence had really helped the boy to grow up and grow into himself a little.

The rest of the small presents proved to be from various Weasleys; in fact, virtually the entire family had given him something. Ronald had given him a crudely made card containing a heartfelt message, which brought a lump to his throat. He carefully hid the ugly thing in one of his favourite books. There was a small scarab shaped amulet which warned against poisons from William. Charles had sent him bristles obtained from a live Chinese Fireball dragon; not rare, but difficult, and sometimes expensive, to obtain. Percy had given him a nice leather bound journal, always useful, while the twins had given him a notebook detailing the recipes of a number of their creations. Their ingenuity was rather impressive, but he could see several places where they could improve them...maybe he should tell them anonymously...add to the current prank war the brats were currently engaging in. It would certainly be amusing to see what the dreadful duo did with the information.

Molly and Arthur had given him a large box of homemade fudge, always good for bribing Minerva, and one of the infamous Weasley jumpers. He held the knitted garment up with horrified fascination. While mainly black in colour, the front of the garment was adorned with a large "S" that took the form of a silver snake. Why did Molly feel the need to put initials on the front of these garments? Was she trying to assist her offspring in remembering their own names? Or was it for general identification purposes? Molly had obviously gone to a lot of trouble over the garment, and it was beautifully finished, and he was _definitely not_ _wearing it. _It might be the season of sartorially challenging knitwear, but there were limits.

Which left the large flat rectangular gift, which he was increasingly thinking was a painting...and which was now emitting rhythmic thumping and crackling sounds. With some trepidation, he peeled back the plain blue wrapping paper to reveal a large, beautifully executed painting of a landscape. It was strange and alien, in a w ay that none of the fantasy art that Snape had seen was able to capture. There was something to the quality of the light that suggested that it had been observed from life, except it was too yellow, the sky too green and the distant mountains too red, while the plain in front was covered in odd lobed plants that were just too strange in both form and colour, too unbelievable to have come from the fevered imagination of some painter stuck in a studio somewhere. And the noise? There on the plain were hundreds of giant armoured men, much like Carrow, some in black with hints of white and yellow, and dripping with skulls, real or otherwise; the others clad in grey-blue amour like old ice, shaggy and wild with many furs and amulets strung about their bulky forms. They seemed to be fighting one another, but it looked more like a friendly brawl than anything else, with huge ugly motorcycles and flying vehicles zipping around, while in the distance a bulky, boxy figure festooned in skulls stomped around on squat legs, bellowing inspirational phrases at the struggling figures. A small brass plaque on the frame proclaimed this to be a _"Training exercise on Terebenth III between the Charnel Guard 6__th__ company and Egil Ironwolf's Great Company of the Space Wolves, 761.M41"_

Snape sat back on his haunches, staring at the large painting where it leaned against the sofa with wide eyes. This could only be from Carrow, and since this wasn't exactly an off-the-shelf image, the man must have made it himself and then decided to give to him, Severus Snape...

...and he knew exactly where he was going to hang it. Stalking off to his office, with the large canvas trailing after him like an obedient dog, he considered hanging possibilities.

Five minutes later, Snape stood back and admired his handiwork. The new painting now hung in pride of place, directly behind his desk, perfect for intimidating recalcitrant students, instead of the overly violent trolls who had been relegated to a space beside the door, but his office was still guaranteed free from overly nosy portraits. He highly doubted that the violent and over armed nut-cases, many of whom were now walking forward to the picture plane to investigate their new surroundings, would tolerate any interlopers into their frame.

The muffled sound of the Headmaster's voice came through the door to his private rooms. "Severus, are you there?" called Dumbledore.

Snape ground his teeth, muttering to himself about nosy old men who made him turn up to meals.

"Oh my, Severus!" the Headmaster said to himself in surprised delight.

Snape frowned in puzzlement; what was the old man whittling on about? His eyes widened in shock.

_The Weasley jumper._

He'd left it on the sofa, preparatory to hiding it at the very back of his closet, never to see the light of day again. Panicking, he ran for his living room.

Crashing through the door, he was greeted by the sight of Dumbledore holding up the offending piece of knitwear for closer examination.

"You know, Severus," Albus began with a wistful smile, "you're so very lucky to have been gifted such a wonderful jumper."

The Headmaster skilfully dodged Snape's lunge for the piece of knitwear. "I really think you should wear it to dinner, my dear boy!" he continued with enthusiasm, to the slightly frantic potions professor.

"Think of the disappointment on the Weasley children's faces when they don't see you wearing it." Dumbledore admonished.

Snape ground his teeth in frustration, not caring one jot about upsetting the little brats. "I'm. Not. Wearing. It. And that's final!" he snarled.

OOOOOO

The brightness and sparkle of the cheerful Christmas decoration managed to be overshadowed by Dumbledore's beaming smile, as he swept into the Great Hall. Behind him, slouching along, was an extremely sullen and bad tempered Severus Snape, cheeks already flushed pink with embarrassed rage.

The occupants of the Great Hall, even the normally oblivious Sybil Trelawney, stared in amazement. For the first time in his career as a professor, Snape was not wearing his normal teaching robes. In fact, he looked quite casual in black trousers, a loose open fronted robe...and a black woollen jumper. The Weasley children present stared in shock, recognising the knitted garment for what it was.

"Wow, sir," one of the twins breathed in awe, "Mum went all out when she made yours."

Snape tried smiling, but it turned into a painful grimace. "It's...very warm..." he managed to mutter, scowling horribly at the Headmaster, who cheerfully ignored his bad mood.

As the once a year torture known as Christmas dinner wound down, the participants began to drift back to their various quarters, and Snape finally managed to slip away from the Headmaster. He quietly approached Ginevra Weasley just as she trailed morosely after her older brothers, shoulders slumped, her appearance dull and lifeless.

"Ten points to Gryffindor for an excellent painting," he softly murmured as he went by. The youngest Weasley looked up, startled, eyes wide. Snape turned to look at her, lips quirking onto a small but genuine smile before he turned and descended into the dungeons.

Alone, Ginny Weasley stood, stunned and delighted before the main staircase, a happy grin, the first in months fighting its way onto her face, like the sun coming out after prolonged bad weather.

OOOOOO

Timothy shifted uncomfortably in the chair watching the rest of his family as they finished unwrapping their gifts. It wasn't that he disliked their company, rather he was missing the quiet and focus that sword practise provided him. The first chance he got he was sneaking outside...

An arm around his throat sent his Carrow honed instincts into over-drive, causing him to knuckle the offender in the face, before throwing them over his shoulder. His brother lay groaning at his feet, clutching at his face, to chuckles and snorts of laughter from the rest of the family.

"You little git," Matthew moaned through his fingers, nursing his latest little brother induced bruise. "Right that's it," he stormed surging to his feet, waving off Dad who was trying to intervene, "you're coming to the paintballing with me and the lads and then you'll get your comeuppance," he poked his finger into Timothy's chest.

Timothy glared back unimpressed by his brother's blustering. "_If_ you desist with the _pranking,_" Timothy sneered, "then I'll agree to it."

The two brothers glowered at one another.

"Pranking?" Matthew muttered, but Timothy just levelled his best Carrow stopping glare at his annoying older brother. "Well?" he hissed.

Matthew wilted. "Fine, fine, no more..._pranking_, but you _have_ to come to the paintballing."

Timothy jerked his head in a nod.

The harsh ringing of a phone broke the awkward silence. Timothy sighed in exasperation as he pulled out his mobile phone from its hiding place. Only one person would ring him on Christmas day.

"Faulks," he snapped down the phone. The deep and rumbling reply just confirmed his worst fears.

The rest of the Faulks family watched in annoyed fascination at the one-sided and incomprehensible phone conversation. Whatever language Timothy was speaking, it definitely wasn't English. As it proceeded, Timothy became increasingly taut, his expression flat and pinched, his hands beginning to tremble in suppressed rage at whatever news the deep and gravely booming was conveying to him.

By the time the conversation had ended, Timothy was grinding his teeth in suppressed anger. To the amazement of his Family he exploded, throwing the mobile phone at the sofa while giving vent to a series of colourful descriptions of his employer in a number of languages that they were mostly unfamiliar with. When Timothy finally flopped on to his chair, face buried in his hands, the silence was ringing.

I'm taking it," Mr Faulks senior tentatively enquired, "that Mr Carrow was being his usual...self."

Timothy's only response was slightly crazed chuckling, "Dad, how much do you know about employment law?"

"Well..." Mr Faulks said uncertainly, "I'm a family solicitor, I don't really..."

"It doesn't matter," interrupted Timothy, a manic gleam in his eyes, "I just need a basic overview." He ran a hand over his already slicked back hair. "Or if not, then if you know someone who does...I'll be eternally grateful."

"Why do you suddenly need to know about _employment_ law?" Matthew asked in bewilderment.

Timothy's face lost all expression, except his eyes which shone with a manic and desperate light. "Mr Carrow has bought an arms manufacturing firm, and he wishes to move it to premises nearer his abode."

"So?" Matthew frowned in puzzlement.

"Mr Carrow is under the impression," Timothy continued, his voice strained, "that he bought the employees, too."

"What?" Matthew's voice was incredulous.

Timothy held up his hands to forestall the outraged exclamations from his family.

"He was under the impression that the employees were automatically included in the price for the business, so he can move them too, just like the machinery. I'm sure if I can explain things properly, that this will just turn out to be one of his little cultural misunderstandings."

OOOOOO

Fred groaned as he slowly regained consciousness. The pounding sweaty headache just behind his eyeballs made him seriously wish he hadn't, the daylight streaming into the dorm just accentuating his pain. Groaning, he rolled over in an attempt to escape the source of his torment. He couldn't remember leaving his bed curtains open, but then he couldn't actually remember getting into bed either. The last thing he remembered was daring George to drink another bottle of butterbeer, something they had spent most of Christmas doing, all in an attempt to get drunk. Considering the low alcohol content of butterbeer, it was something that took a considerable amount of time and effort to achieve, and then there were the after effects. Butterbeer hangovers were utterly vicious, worse than that time he and George had stolen Dad's bottle of Old Ogden's and got utterly paralytic...which still didn't explain why he couldn't move. Struggling, he fought an arm free from the twining and overly friendly blankets, allowing him to attain a more upright position, except the pillow came with him, stuck to the back of his head. Struggling with the blankets, he managed to pull his other arm free, enabling him to tug the pillow off, only to end up with it stuck to his left cheek, and then his forehead as it refused to relinquish physical contact with him. Head pounding, and now definitely awake, he realised the horrible truth; they'd been well and truly pranked in their moment of weakness.

"George, GEORGE!" Fred huffed in exasperation, as his twin groaned in pain and tried to bury himself further under his pillow. "Wake up, you pillock, we've been got! Again!"

"Wuhh?" George groaned as he finally began to surface, "Wuzz up?"

"We've been pranked," Fred roared as he tried to wrestle his pillow away from his head only for it to slap him in the face as it regained contact.

"Wha?"

"Wake up you idiot!" Fred snarled as he fell from the bed painfully while trying to wrestle his legs free from the tangling sheets.

"Oh crap," came from the other accompanied by frantic thrashing as George suddenly realised his predicament. "Oh, hell!"

But it didn't matter how much they struggled and wrestled with their bedding, or even the bed curtains in George's case, they could not free themselves; and all their shouting for help went unheeded.

As the morning progressed, it became clear that rather more pressing matters were becoming increasingly urgent.

"Fred," George plaintively called from his curtain cocoon.

"Yes?" Fred snapped from his mummified state on the floor.

"I need a wee."

OOOOOO

Fred stared moodily into the flames of the Gryffindor common room fire, George seated at his side in a similar state. It had been utterly humiliating being found by McGonagall in the early afternoon; both by that point had had "bodily function" issues, and the smell had made it obvious. As soon as they were freed, they had both sprinted for the showers, but not before noting McGonagall's mouth twitching, as she tried desperately to hide her amusement from them. There was just something about this mysterious prankster that was just so personal, their highly targeted pranks that were so vindictive and twisted. Whoever they were must have a real beef with them; the pranks were just too vicious for it to be otherwise.

But there was something about the whole incident that Fred was sure he was missing...and it all revolved around the butterbeer, and how the charm, or whatever it was, had been administered to them. The bottles had been stored in their dorm for several weeks in anticipation of Christmas day, except it wasn't their most secure hiding place. Any of the Gryffindors could have snuck in and broken their wards...any of the _Gryffindors_...

"George," Fred turned to his brother who was currently sporting a jaunty piece of scrunched up parchment and a couple of quills on the side of his head, "I think our rival has slipped up."

George visibly perked up, showing interest in something for the first time that day. There was nothing like being discovered imprisoned in one's own urine soaked bed curtains by Minerva McGonagall to send one into a depressive funk.

"The butterbeer! Everybody ate the same food as we did, but not the butterbeer. I can't prove it but I'm certain that that was the method of delivery."

George nodded thoughtfully in agreement. "Pity the house elves are as efficient as they are. So...?"

"Think about it. Who were the only people who could access that stash?"

George frowned in consternation, not quite getting Fred's excitement. "It could be anyone from Gryff...ohhh." He slowly began to smile a smile that only a shark could admire. "Well, that narrows things down a bit."

"And we can discount the first and second years too," Fred agreed eagerly, "and considering the wards we used, possibly the third years as well."

George nodded. "Perfect Percy is definitely on the incapable list too...Lee would have told us, so we could join in the joke..."

"But this will make things too complicated," Fred continued thoughtfully, "why don't we just prank the whole house?"

"A New Year's welcome back that they'll never forget," George finished, a malicious glint in his eye.

OOOOOO

He looked down at the ridiculous contraption with which he had been presented. A bright, shiny blue with black grips, it was a rather cheery approximation of a gun with a hopper on top, in which he was supposed to pour the bright orange paintball ammo. His darling brother had then left him to his own devices, still laughing at his body glove, ever present sash and rather battered bits of body armour and webbing, while he sorted out with his fellow squaddies who was going to be on which team. Timothy grimaced in annoyance; he, Wulfric and the Vampires never had this trouble when Carrow was putting them through various scenarios in the tunnels beneath the Lodge, or in the woods nearby. It was a matter of survival, after all.

Matthew and his friends had rather pointedly excluded him from this apparently all important decision making, embarrassed and scornful over his unwanted presence. Unheeded, he took the opportunity to examine the layout that was rather jokingly displayed near the entrance to the actual "combat zone"; a sneaky peek revealed a multi-level industrial style space, threaded through with gantries and pipes, and full of vantage points and hiding places. Timothy was thrilled, his mind already working out an initial route, and taking note of all the best places to snipe from. He was looking forward to this, particularly since he knew there was not even the remotest possibility of Carrow being hidden in there, ready to leap out and ruin his day. Now all he needed to do was deal with these time wasting idiots.

He scowled at the backs of Matthew and his fellow soldiers, who had seemingly still made no progress towards picking teams for what was supposed to be a simple capture-the-flag game, the paisley flag that was going to be _it_ currently being waved around by his annoying brother. Well, there was a simple solution to this.

Striding forward, he snatched the "flag" from his brother's hand, rapidly backing away towards the entrance, a patented Carrow grin on his face.

"Come and get it!" he laughed in the stunned soldiers' faces, before launching himself over the railing onto a lower gantry, rolling on impact, and then sprinting along his memorised route.

"What the?!" Matthew spluttered, running forward, just in time to see his rapidly retreating brother disappear at a sprint round a tank like construction. He turned to his friends, absolutely furious. "What are you waiting for? Let's get the little shit!"

OOOOOO

Sirius Black came round slowly, the world gradually resolving from fuzzy greys into pin sharp clarity...and he really wished it hadn't. The first thing he became aware of was that he was locked up in a cage; a giant, gilded bird cage. For some reason, the floor he was sitting on was covered with parsley. Sirius scrunched his face up in consternation. Somebody out there had a seriously warped sense of humour, and this was _him_ saying it.

The next thing he became painfully aware of was his almost total nudity. To his utter mortification, his only attire was a small gold lame...thong. He tried frantically to cover himself with the parsley, but there really wasn't enough of it for the job. At least he'd been washed.

The third thing he became aware of was the sheer presence of the space in which he was being held captive. The ceiling arched overhead with its complex mouldings and pendant vaults, while the walls around him were covered in frescos depicting scenes of extreme violence being perpetrated by large blocky figures against strange and terrible creatures, humans and sometimes other large and blocky figures, any remaining wall space being draped in cloth of gold. In the centre of this temple to violence lay a duelling pit, in which the most enormous man he'd ever seen, clad only in small leather shorts and high laced boots, was wrestling with a rather terrified troll, while golden confetti rained down, twinkling in the lighting of the room. Sirius gaped disbelievingly at the bizarre sight. Added to this, the troll was losing rather rapidly, loudly voicing its distress at the situation. With a nasty crunching, the poor creature's neck snapped, and the giant leapt to his feet, grinning broadly, while the spectators lining the edge of the pit cheered and shouted for more.

"Who wants to go next?" the giant asked cheerfully, in his impossibly deep and gravelly voice.

An eager hand flew up, and another combatant scrambled into the pit while the remains of the troll were cleared away.

"You have a choice of opponent," the giant told the much smaller man. With a grin, he pointed to several of the barred hatches that lined the inside of the pit. "Behind Door No.1, we have a Dire Wolf, Door No.2 conceals a Grizzly Bear, and last, but definitely not least, Door No.3..." he paused dramatically causing everybody to lean forward in eager anticipation, "a juvenile Nundu!"

This was met with appreciative oohs and aahs, and even a little applause by the gathered crowd. The man in the pit considered his options carefully, his eyes flashing red in the light, as he considered the different doors. Sirius recoiled violently. _Vampire!_ his senses screamed, as he frantically started looking around. _How the hell had he landed in this situation?_ he thought angrily to himself, desperately shaking the bars of his gilded cage. A roaring cheer went up from the blood-thirsty crowd, as the new combatant finally made his choice, the giant leaping lightly out of the pit, as the desired hatch opened, revealing a very angry and large bear. The enraged animal charged with surprising speed at the vampire, who dodged as only one of his kind could. Armed only with a short sword, he set about the culling of the unfortunate animal.

Meanwhile, Sirius continued his investigation of the cage, but there was no obvious opening, no signs of hinges at all, almost as if magic were required to open the cage, which now he thought about it was rather unsettling. And even if he did manage to get out of the cage, where would he go? The large room he was captive in appeared to have only a single opening, and was also filled with strange and violent people, most of whom were probably vampires...and that was if the giant didn't get to him first. So, resigned to his fate, whatever it would be, Sirius Black settled down in his cage to watch the strange goings on.

He'd witnessed the parties his parents would throw when he was a child, even the ones to which only their closest friends and family were invited to, the ones at which a stray muggle would be present, and the guest would show off their nastiest curses, while drinking fine French wines, and sharing amusing anecdotes with the other guests. But this gathering...somehow it was worse, as he watched a parade of creatures, both magical and mundane, be slaughtered in various ways, the "gladiators" diverse in their choice of weapons and magic.

His eyes wandered listlessly over the gold draped walls of the otherwise oppressive room, the guests as they enjoyed the combat of the pit or lounged on large circular seats, which floated around the pit to enable their passengers a better view of the current combat. For a while he watched the gold confetti that constantly drifted down from the ceiling, coating everything underneath. Closer examination of the stuff revealed it to be in the shape of the runes for health, wealth and happiness, a curious contrast to the semi-naked sweat and gore spattered bodies of the combatants to which it readily adhered; there even appeared to be a small buffet of normal food in one corner...and talking of buffets...it soon became very clear precisely why he was present. His was not the only gilded cage. Across the side of the duelling pit, Sirius watched in horror, as some poor unfortunate was bundled from his cage and set upon by one of the vampire guests, the others standing around chattering and watching in idle fascination, while the man's screams became fainter and fainter. He was part of the food laid on for the occasion, no better that one of those half oranges covered in cocktail sticks with cubes of cheese and pineapple. Dispirited, he slumped down in his cage, cursing himself for a fool. It had been stupid trying to mug a wizard for his wand, but he was desperate. How else was he going to capture Pettigrew in a Hogwarts gone mad, and save his godson from almost certain doom? But now he was in a worse situation than he ever been, due yet again to his own actions, his own stupidity. Tears welling up in his eyes, Sirius watched the giant, as he lounged on one of the floating seats, now wrapped in a shimmering golden robe. The huge man was obviously the one in charge, holding court as the others looked to him. Was this a new and upcoming Dark Lord? The Daily Prophets he'd been able to scavenge didn't mention anything explicit, but there did seem to be a lot of strange and unfortunate deaths among people who had been suspected Death Eaters or sympathisers during the War...and why did the giant look so familiar? It was there at the back of his mind, but he was just too unsettled to quite put his finger on it.

More desperate screams drew Sirius's attention as another unfortunate member of the human buffet was dragged from her cage, but the vampires, instead of pouncing for the kill, stabbed the woman in the side of her throat allowing her blood to spray messily into a goblet held ready. The vampires' eyes were like glowing coals, their fangs long and prominent and dripping saliva as they held back from this kill. Almost reverently they processed together until all the vampires stood together in front of the giant. The one holding the goblet of blood stood forward. "Sir," he began in a tone of utmost respect, "please accept this as a token of allegiance between the Slink Alley Coven and yourself, we...we accept you as one of us." The vampires expectantly eyed the giant, some shifting nervously.

The giant, his face impassive stood and reached towards the goblet. "I accept this token of allegiance, this symbol of brotherhood...and sisterhood," he added with a small smile at the pointed glares of the female vampires...and then he downed the contents of the goblet to appreciative smiles and applause from the vampire coven. Sirius gagged at the sight, nearly loosing what little food was in his stomach. By the time he had composed himself, the vampires were gathering round the monster, and persuading him back to the duelling pit, not that it was taking much effort.

"As a thank-you for all the good you have done the Slink Alley Coven we have caught something special...just for you," the apparent leader of the coven grinned up at the blood drinking monster who gazed down at him with carefully guarded excitement.

"Edwin..." he began, his deep voice betraying his emotions.

The vampires exploded into action, clearing the pit and preparing for the release of their prize, each one trembling with excitement. The monster prowled restlessly back and forth like some giant predatory cat, tense with eager anticipation...and then their prize exited from its imprisonment, the temperature of the chamber dipped markedly, and Sirius shivered in abject horror at the spectacle of an imprisoned Dementor.

The Monster on the other hand...Sirius scooted back as far in his cage as he could, animal fear crawling up and down his spine.

With a primal roar, the Monster leapt into the pit, landing lightly in a crouch, ready to spring. The Dementor seemed to realise that something was very wrong, scuttling sideways, wisps of ragged cloth trailing behind it, as it attempted to keep a low profile. The Monster, oblivious to the fear-inducing qualities of the creature, stalked it around the edge of the pit, getting ever closer as the Dark creature froze trying to blend unsuccessfully into the stonework. In frustration and fear, it tried attacking its tormentor, but the Monster was prepared, lashing out faster that the human eye could see. The Dementor fled in terror, for the first time crying out its fear and panic, an utterly chilling sound in the silence of the hall. Thrashing round the pit, the Dark creature tried to claw its way out, or force its way through the bars of the hatches, the Monster tracking it all the while... and then he pounced with a triumphant bellow, and the sounds of crunching and popping and tearing joined the ever decreasing wails of the Dementor...till all was silent.

The Monster slowly stood, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, dark ichor splattered across his tall and muscular frame, the gold of the confetti glittering where it had adhered to his sweat coated body. He eyed the watching crowd carefully. "I vow that I will _exterminate _the wretched creatures called Dementors from the face of Holy Terra. On my faith to the God-Emperor I swear this." His voice rang around the silent hall. The viewers seemed to shake themselves from their stunned stupor murmuring their agreement and approval of the Monster's proclamation.

Sirius, pale and shaken, was much in agreement with them. If anybody could destroy utterly the Dementors, then this man could...though what was Holy Terra or the God-Emperor? The Monster was obviously a card short of a tarot pack. He curled up on the floor of his cage trying to cover himself with the parsley. It was all getting too much, and so he attempted to block the horror of the situation out through sleep, ignoring the noise as the crowd of murderous maniacs counted in the New Year and then the sound of renewed combat from the duelling pit.

He was woken from his slumber by the sound of bickering...female bickering. Cracking his eyes open revealed two female vampires standing outside his cage. Any vestige of drowsiness abruptly fled.

"Well, what about this one?" the blonde one suggested to her taller companion, pointing directly at Sirius. Her brunette friend eyed Sirius up like a piece of meat, her nose wrinkled in disdain. "No, too scrawny," she announced.

"But Caroline, he's a wizard, he'll taste so much better than that muggle," the little blonde vampire waved a hand at a nearby cage, containing a ranting beefy man, who seemed quite irate at being locked in a small cage in nothing more than a gold lame thong.

"And that's before you even get onto the nasty things they often take. Remember the one you got once, who'd been _thinning _his blood? That was just _nasty_."

"But he's so scrawny!" Caroline cried. "It's like he's been living on _rats_!"

"Excuse me," Sirius tried, but the lady vampires weren't up to listening to their dinner.

"Excuse me," he tried again.

"And look at his legs! They're like twigs!" Caroline continued. "I don't know who decided on the gold thongs, but this one looks terrible in it. Very unappetising!" she finished with a sniff.

"Excuse me!" Sirius shouted, indignant at just how personal these two females were getting. Azkaban did not do anything good for the figure, but to have it pointed out in such an embarrassing fashion...there were limits.

"This one is still a wizard though," the blonde one pointed out, her gold scattered curls bobbing around her face, as she nodded, emphasising her point. "Even half starved, he's got to taste better than a muggle, who may or may not have been eating funny pills."

Caroline huffed to herself, still comparing the two unfortunate men.

"You just fancied all those muscles, didn't you?" the little blonde pointed out with a smirk, which showed off her fangs rather fetchingly.

"All right, Annie! Enough. We'll have this one!" And with that Sirius found himself being dragged from the relative sanctuary of his cage, by small but frighteningly strong hands.

"E...excuse me," he tried frantically, trying to get the two vampires to take notice of him.

Annie scowled, and gave him a little shake. "Food doesn't talk back, now be quiet!" she hissed at him, before she froze, frowning. "Wait a moment, you look familiar," she murmured thoughtfully, "where have I seen you before?"

"Wait a minute..." Caroline said slowly, "I've seen your picture in the papers...Sirius Black...that's who you are!"

Sirius froze in their grasp, petrified as to their intentions. Nervously licking dry chapped lips, he nodded jerkily. "Yes...yes, I'm Sirius Black," he whispered knowing that his end was now close, and his chance for justice, not just for himself, but also his Godson was in utter jeopardy.

"Allesandor," Caroline and Annie chorused together.

"He'll definitely need to see this," Annie stated in a determined voice.

"Oh yes!" Caroline agreed. "Pity about dinner, though."

And with that the two lady vampires pulled Sirius to his feet, and physically dragged him to his fate.

When they finally released him, he slumped to the floor, embarrassed by his relative nudity, trying to make himself look as small and as unthreatening as possible. Directly in front of him were the largest feet he had ever seen, encased in soft leather boots, high laced like those worn by boxers. His eyes travelled up the powerful legs, with the gold confetti stuck in place by sweat and the body fluids of the dementor, shimmering gold robes partially covering the Monster's torso, until his gaze locked with the chilly green eyes that gazed down at him with faint puzzlement.

Sirius closed his eyes, gulping down his fear; up close the man was even more threatening, the promise of violence hanging around him like a cloak.

"Was the food off, ladies?" the Monster asked with amusement, his voice rumbling around the hall.

"Not precisely sir," Annie began, choosing her words carefully.

"We believe this is Sirius Black," Caroline got straight to the point, "we thought you should know, Mr Carrow, sir." The two lady vampires shared a significant look.

The Monster leaned forward, carefully eyeing the wreck of a man slumped at his feet. Sirius shivered at the intensity of the giant's gaze, goose bumps rising along his spine, as a cold breeze seemed to flow through his mind. Sirius blinked in surprise; had the Monster just used the Mind Arts on him? What sort of legilimency was that?

Sirius shook with fear as the Monster leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable.

"Mr Black is completely innocent," he announced, mild surprise colouring his deep and gravelly voice.

The guests were oddly quiet to Sirius's mind, merely watching the scene before them unfold with idle curiosity. Most of them were wearing armour and very little else, except for one figure near the back of the crowd, who appeared to be wearing very battered and gore splattered dress robes...Sirius's eyes widened in horror. There stood the absolute last person he wanted to see at the moment. Severus Tobias Snape was standing there, eyes wide, and one narrow hand hiding the broad grin plastered over his pasty face. Sirius wasn't entirely surprised to see old Snivellus hanging around with people like these, and it did confirm his Dark Lord theory for the Monster very nicely.

"Timothy," the Monster turned in his seat to address a tall and gaunt man who stood nearby. Unlike most of the other guests, he was fully dressed in a form hugging black leather suit, dragon hide armour, and a blue and bronze sash with a sword hanging from his belt.

"Sir," he murmured softly, eyeing Sirius with a raised eyebrow.

"I understand the "kiss-on-sight" order is still active for Mr Black," the Monster rumbled thoughtfully.

"It is indeed, sir," Timothy replied.

"Equip Mr Black suitably, set him loose and then track him," the Monster ordered, his expression turning utterly feral. "I want those Dementors, and Mr Black is going to lead me straight to them." He grinned like a shark, his teeth glittering dangerously in the light of the hall.

OOOOOO

The God-Emperor was having a very frustrating day, fruitless data and equally fruitless meetings full of clashing egos making for a very unhappy man. So it was with a huge sigh of relief that he retreated to his office. Arms full of paperwork, he elbowed his office door open, kicked it shut behind him and was about to dump the offending files on his desk preparatory to making a large mug of coffee, when he became aware of beady eyes staring at him intently. There, sitting on his desk, was a bird with magnificent flame like plumage staring at him intently, beak slightly open as if in shock.

"A phoenix," he breathed. It had been many years since he had last seen one...and now he had one sitting on his desk in the middle of CERN of all places.

The bird in question chirped softly in surprised wonder, before its eyes rolled backward, and it keeled sideways in a dead faint.

"Blast it," the God-Emperor snarled softly to himself. Just what he needed, he thought, as he dumped the irritating paperwork on his chair. Just as he was reaching for the bird to try and revive it in some way, one of his more annoying junior colleagues burst through his door, with the most cursory of knocks.

"Oh look," she cooed, "I see you finally got your parrot, Professor Schmidt."

The irritating young lady wandered over to his desk for a closer look. "Is it resting?" she asked with concern, giving the phoenix a gentle prod. "Oh look, it just moved!"

The God-Emperor groaned softly into his hands; why had he bothered getting up this morning?


	7. Chapter 7

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Chapter 7

With the start of the new term imminent, lunch on New Year's day was a quiet affair as people contemplated their last few moments of freedom. All except one; Albus Dumbledore was a very concerned man. Severus Snape had left the school grounds to attend a New Year's party and failed to return, behaviour which was highly unusual for the normally punctual man.

Dumbledore had checked Snape's quarters, office and classroom. He'd even checked the library, the kitchens, and as a last resort, the Infirmary...and still Severus was nowhere to be found. All Dumbledore knew was that Allesandor Carrow was the host of the party Snape had gone to, and frankly, that was worrying in itself.

The tired shuffling of someone entering the Hall caught the diners' attention. Looking up, Dumbledore did a double-take.

"Severus," he gasped, appalled by the man's appearance, "are you all right?"

The once smart and expensive dress-robes looked as if they had been mauled by ferocious beasts; ragged and torn, with the left sleeve hanging off at the shoulder, revealing Snape's skin, the garments were a complete write-off. Splashed liberally in blood, gore, and other noxious substances, the Potions Master smelt as if he had taken up wrestling in a particularly grubby abattoir. The suspicious (and leaking) doggy bag Snape was clutching didn't help...but why the dusting of gold flakes on his shoulders and in his hair? And most disturbing of all was the huge grin the normally dour man was sporting.

"Good afternoon," Snape cheerfully announced to the stunned diners, as he plonked himself down in a chair, and reached for the toast rack.

"A good party, then?" Dumbledore enquired eyeing Snape carefully for any possible injuries, though those he could see appeared to have already been treated.

Snape's smile grew to manic proportions. "Oh, yes," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "without a doubt that was probably the best party I've ever been to." He proceeded to stack his plate with eggs, bacon, toast, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, and anything else within his reach, before tucking into the food with a gusto normally only seen in Ronald Weasley after a morning of brutal three-a-side Quidditch.

The collected diners watched Snape wolfing down his lunch, and then reaching for seconds, with an air of fascinated horror. What sort of party gave out doggy bags of (possibly) body parts? And did that sort of damage? And did they really want to know?

A gusty sigh broke the silence. "I wish _I_ could have gone to Mr Carrow's party," Hermione said wistfully.

Snape smiled at her indulgently. "Patience, Miss Granger, patience," he waved a fork at his young student, "it will only be a couple more years before you are of an age to appreciate the finer points of one of Mr Carrow's parties."

OOOOOO

"So how was everybody's Christmas?" Wulfric asked cheerfully. "I spent mine camping on the moors, contemplating my spiritual connection with the Moon, and then communed with my inner wolf, with some very therapeutic Moon-howling sessions and guided meditations. I feel refreshed, and ready for anything," he finished with an expectant grin.

Faulks and Carrow gave him odd looks, before turning back to watch the frantic maintenance staff erect hoarding around the Fountain of Magical Brethren, hindered by the crowds of Ministry workers arriving for the first shift of the new year. Many recoiled in horror from the creatively cursed piece of municipal sculpture, whose alterations, despite the best efforts of the maintenance staff, appeared to be permanent. In fact, every cancelling spell and charm they tried seemed to be making matters worse.

Adding to the trauma of this very worst Monday of the year to the average Ministry worker, was the loitering presence of the Dark Horse of the Wizengamot, his intense and intimidating secretary, the man everyone suspected was a werewolf, the rescue tiger who was now the size of a Newfoundland and just as affectionate, and the strange pet vampire who stood slightly apart, always silent, her eyes red and fangs prominent, staring at the necks of passersby. Why the DMLE were yet to have a stern talk with Mr Carrow was a subject of much debate among the Ministry gossips.

One of the clerks from the Department of Magical Transport who had strayed too close to the mutilated statue barged into Faulks, eyes glazed, muttering "the teeth, the _teeth..._" The man leapt away with a girlish scream at Faulks's terrifying snarl.

Faulks brushed himself down, glaring after the stunned man who was staggering off to the lifts. Personally, he thought Carrow was behind this latest happening at the Ministry, though of course the overly large man wasn't admitting to anything.

He looked up to find Wulfric grinning at him expectantly. "Errr...sorry, I wasn't listening," he muttered evasively. Wulfric huffed at him in amused annoyance.

"I visited my auntie and uncle." Carrow's deep and gravelly voice boomed over their heads. "Auntie Petunia was delighted with the perfume you recommended, Timothy, and Uncle Vernon wept with joy when I told him of the purchase of my new business. He actually tried hugging me, and declared how proud he was, and how I was his favourite nephew." He smiled down at his employees.

Wulfric and Carrow turned to Timothy expectantly.

"So, how did yours go then?" Wulfric finally asked.

"It went." Timothy said reluctantly. "My brother was there too. Haven't seen him in a while, forgotten how he can be, to be honest."

"The soldier?" Carrow interrupted.

Timothy nodded. "He talked me into going paintballing with him and his friends. It was...an interesting experience" he finished lamely, as they headed towards the lifts on their way to the office, Artemis ranging ahead, trying to make friends with the skittish clerks and secretaries.

As always they had the lift to themselves, not many people wanting to occupy the same small space as a looming, grinning Carrow.

"Paintballing, huh?" Wulfric said. "Sounds like fun. So, are you going to tell us all the juicy details?" He rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation.

"Well," Timothy said reluctantly, "I got to implement all the techniques you've been teaching us with regards to battlefield combat, sir." He nodded respectfully to Carrow, before breaking into a rare grin. "Actually, it was brilliant fun. An indoor, industrial style landscape, multilevel, lots of hiding places, ambush zones, vantage points...it was terrific."

His smile slowly faded, "It went...well ...my brother's friends, I don't think they appreciated my presence...so when I stole the flag to get them started...I think I may have seriously annoyed them...and I admit I did get rather carried away." He shot the other two men a slightly embarrassed look as the lift doors opened on yet another floor and several Ministry denizens decided that, actually, they were going to take the stairs this morning, for the good of their health of course.

Timothy shifted nervously; he had indeed got rather carried away, but in the end, he had only been implementing everything that Carrow had taught him.

He done his best to get up high and snipe down at them, jumping from gantry to gantry and climbing among the pipe work, doing his best not to stay in one place too long, carefully hugging the shadows. He'd nearly come a cropper at one point, as he misjudged a jump and ended up hanging by his finger tips fifteen feet above the floor, the pale upturned faces of his opponents clearly visible beneath. Grimly hanging on by one hand, he had sprayed the unfortunates with paintballs, pulling himself to safety as they dived for cover.

He'd taken the ammo of those he'd "killed" to use himself as he slowly ran out; it would have been stupid to leave such a valuable resource lying around. Possibly he'd got a little too physical with one or two of them in his enthusiasm. And then there was his brother, who had got angrier and angrier, refusing to play by the rules, no matter how many times he'd shot him in the forehead.

"I mean, they were professional soldiers," Timothy tried to explain, "but they wouldn't really tell me what they thought about my performance...and it would have been so nice to have a different opinion...you know."

"Looks to me like they couldn't appreciate you the way they should have," Wulfric said with a reassuring smile.

Carrow gazed down at his secretary, his expression unreadable. "You should insist on a rematch. It would be very interesting indeed to see how you compare to a Dark Ages soldier, interesting indeed."

He knew they were trying to reassure him, but Timothy still couldn't help feel that maybe he'd underperformed in some way and let his brother down. Maybe if he'd been just that bit faster, that bit more efficient in his kills...he sighed heavily.

The lift doors opened, and they cautiously exited on their floor on the lookout for any potential traps. On being given the all clear by Carrow, they preceded down the corridor, whereupon Natasha and Artemis raced ahead, both determined to be first at the office door. As they rounded the corner, piercing screams signalled the presence of a hysterical junior clerk, who had the misfortune of nearly being bowled over by the overenthusiastic pair.

They paused by the office door, as Carrow checked the wards and other protections, before calling Artemis away from a cornered and gibbering Ministry drone.

OOOOOO

Carrow's outer office had been expanded yet again. Timothy's desk now occupied the opposite side of the room to the typing pool, which had increased in size again to encompass several more desks and even separate cubicles. An ever increasing cat's cradle of cabling ran everywhere, carefully taped to the floor. Behind Timothy's desk was now an archway leading into what had been an unused office next door, but had now been commandeered for use as office space for Wulfric, as well as storage for the numerous documents Carrow was insistent were necessary for the smooth running of his office. The visitor's settee, currently occupied by a smug Natasha who had won the fight for it with Artemis, was now flanked by large pot plants in fancy urns. The kitchenette had even acquired a small fridge complete with humorous fridge-magnets, and a postcard of the cutest, scowliest puppy ever with the caption _"This is Fluffy, destroyer of worlds. Tremble before his mighty deeds_".

There was even a tiny shrine by Carrow's office door, a small gilded image of the God-Emperor smiting with extreme prejudice some hideous monster, a candle and incense always burning before it.

And there was more room to expand into, in this unpopular and low status area of the Ministry building. Timothy was very much of the opinion that Cornelius Fudge was a fool for giving Carrow such a golden opportunity to plot and expand his tentacles completely unchecked. Personally, if he'd been the Minister, he'd have given Carrow an office as close to his as he could, just so he could keep an eye on the giant menace to society. As it was, it was only a matter of time before Carrow took over the entire floor, turning it into an effective Shadow Ministry. Faulks was becoming resigned to Carrow's megalomaniac tendencies, and had started laying bets with Wulfric on how soon anyone else would notice what the man was up to.

Settled behind his desk with his first cup of coffee of the day, Wulfric grumbling behind him, he pulled the first of many reports towards him trying to ignore his very exposed feeling back. The first chance he got he was definitely moving his desk...the corner beside Carrow's office door was a possibility especially if he put it at an angle, and then he'd be able to watch the entrance and Carrow's office without worrying about Wulfric trying to stuff bits of paper down his neck for a laugh...not that he'd done it yet, but give him time. Timothy shifted uncomfortably and tried to go back to his report...

...only to be interrupted by Carrow pacing around, checking for spy charms and the like before raising the security wards, Wulfric breaking into a cacophony of sneezes as the strong magic upset his delicate nose.

Carrow swung round, smirking viciously. "Just before the typing ladies arrive and Morning Prayer, I think we should...catch up quickly on certain events, just so that we're singing from the same hymnal, as it were."

Timothy narrowed his eyes suspiciously; Carrow was practically vibrating with excitement, a danger signal if ever he'd seen one.

"Well, fire away then," Wulfric said cheerfully from where he had perched himself on the edge of Timothy's desk. Timothy scowled at the intrusion into his space.

"So how did the party go?" Wulfric asked Carrow with a grin, oblivious to the murderous looks his behind was receiving.

"Most satisfactory," Carrow purred as he peeled a reluctant Natasha from the visitor's sofa, sitting down himself, and dumping her in his lap. The sofa protested under the sheer weight it was never designed to carry, making pitiful creaks and groans every time Carrow shifted.

"Yes, the party went very well indeed." Carrow smiled like a shark. "We procured an excellent range of creatures, and the Coven's buffet turned into a wonderful excuse to get rid of some more of Crabbe's contacts..."

"In fact, the last of the ones we know about." Timothy added.

"Which means the search for the ones we don't know about must now begin." Carrow's expression was serious but his eyes gleamed with anticipation for the hunt. He frowned thoughtfully, before breaking into an almost excited grin. "And then among the low-lives we scooped, we struck gold." He paused dramatically.

Wulfric glared at him in exasperation. "Well?" he asked.

"Sirius Black," Carrow's grinned broadened, "delivered to my feet, a most excellent New Year's gift...and now, of course, acting as Dementor bait." He leaned back, eyes half closed with smug satisfaction, stroking Natasha's hair as she lay curled up on his lap. The little vampire didn't quite purr but it was close. He lapsed into silence, his best I-know-something-you-don't smirk plastered on his face.

Wulfric and Timothy exchanged exasperated looks, before staring expectantly at the annoying lump that was their employer.

"Would you please grace us lesser beings with the superiority of your vast knowledge?" Timothy ground out, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Carrow's smirk broadened as he managed to look even smugger. "Our...little escapee from the Romanian Cultist incident has resurfaced in, according to my sources, Yugoslavia."

"Which is currently in a state of civil war," Timothy said thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, "the perfect place for someone like that to hide."

"And of course it will make it considerably easier for us to slip in unnoticed and track the heretic scum. I understand their Magical Ministry is in just as much disarray as their mundane governing body," Carrow agreed with an approving smile. "It may lead us to..."

Artemis pounced, jealous of _her_ daddy showering affection on the funny smelling two-legger. She leapt up, swatting at her annoying rival with her large and heavy paws, snarling and growling her anger. Natasha hissed in surprise at the sudden violence being directed at her and lashed out, her hands clawed. The two batted at one another furiously as they fought for supremacy of Carrow's lap, the owner of said lap watching the tussle with mild surprise and puzzlement.

As Artemis finally managed to grab Natasha's leg and pull the little vampire off his lap Carrow's mind whirled with all the possible reasons for this confrontation. Could it be power? Influence?...He shook his head at the sheer ridiculousness of his train of thought. These weren't aristos clawing their way up the social hierarchy...he could detect a certain amount of jealousy, a certain level of resentment...his mind searched desperately for comparisons, unused and rusty mental cogs grinding and meshing, shedding rust..._could this be...sibling rivalry?_ he thought, as he watched the two combatants roll and snap and snarl at one another on the floor.

Well too bad, because he wasn't tolerating this. Striding in, he quickly separated the argumentative pair, grabbing them by the scruffs of their necks.

"Disgraceful!" Carrow growled in disgust at the two sorry looking creatures. "You will stay _here_," he plonked Natasha down by Timothy's chair, "and you will stay _here." _Artemis slunk into the knee hole of Wulfric's desk. "Please keep an eye on them," he said to the two silent men, before turning on his heel and striding into his personal office, leather robes swirling dramatically around him.

Timothy and Wulfric eyed one another for a moment. "Well, it looks like this pair are on the naughty chair, for the time being." Wulfric murmured with more than a little amusement to his colleague. Timothy heaved a sigh, as he eyed the little vampire who was curled up by his desk, listlessly picking at the carpet and rubbed at his forehead, the beginnings of a headache pulsing gently above his right eye. "Indeed," he muttered pulling out his small prayer book in preparation as the cheery typing ladies started to arrive, calling out greetings as they went past.

OOOOOO

In a flat in a comfortable suburb of Geneva, a Christmas tree still sat in a window, cheerfully decorated with tinsel and a multitude of multi-coloured baubles. Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, its owner was reluctant to take down the decorations of his favourite time of year.

Sitting back with a satisfied sigh, the God-Emperor of Mankind admired his handiwork. He could quite happily say that Transfiguration was fast becoming his favourite branch of "Magic"; for there, sitting on his coffee table, was the largest niobium-titanium magnet he'd seen outside of a heavily funded lab. Some of the people he had worked with in the past would probably sell small children, or maybe even their own bodily organs to get their hands on something like this. It was, in his opinion, an excellent use for a particularly ugly vase a colleague had insisted on giving him for Christmas one year; honestly, the hideous thing had looked like it was man eating. Now all he needed to do was activate the runes which he had carefully inscribed across the magnet's surface. All his books insisted that he needed a wand for this bit, but that was something he hadn't quite got round to yet, mainly due to the irresistible lure of the book shop.

He looked around for a suitable substitute, before spying an abandoned pencil, dumped with the newspaper on the sofa for the day's crossword; the rather battered object with its chewed end had a very similar construction to a "magic" wand with its outer wooden jacket and inner core. It was certainly worth a try, and so he waved it at a cushion with a swish and flick and a "wingardium leviosa" and watched in satisfaction as the piece of soft furnishing levitated a clear foot off the settee, before settling back as he released the spell. He grinned to himself.

Perfect.

Carefully pointing at the first rune with the sharpened point, the God-Emperor ran the pencil along the runes, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, as he concentrated on carefully channelling just the right amount of "magic" into each symbol, leaving a glowing trail behind. Satisfied with the results, he tucked his wand substitute behind his ear, as he carefully watched the magnet for any change.

Slowly but steadily, the block of rare metals developed a frosty coating as it rose above the scarred surface of the coffee table. At six inches, the cylindrical block halted, hovering and slowly spinning in the warm air of the God-Emperor's flat. Delighted, he flung his arms up with a whoop of joy. It had worked, so now he could concentrate on back engineering it, and working out a more mechanical way of producing the same results. This "magic"...this wonderful tool that he could so easily have completely missed was likely to push forward his research by hundreds of years. Even Widow Weber banging on the flat ceiling below him, yelling "put a sock in it you noisy bugger" couldn't put a dent in his good cheer. He pulled his plans for a pocket sized fusion reactor towards him, completely ignoring the rhythmic banging coming from beneath him, happily humming to himself as he worked on a possible home energy revolution.

OOOOOO

Snape narrowed his eyes grumpily at the twin menaces as they took their places at the Gryffindor house table, his mood already frayed by the ominous letter he had received yesterday. The return of the Dreadful Duo was doing nothing to help, as he glared at them just knowing they were about to pull of some outrageous stunt. Their body language just screamed TROUBLE, the shifty looking around, the way they whispered to one another, the way they seemed to be passing something back and forth underneath the table...he tried telling the Headmaster, only to be brushed off with a "boys will be boys" and an indulgent smile. He sent a sullen glare down the table at the man in question who was, typically, excited to see the little hellions back as they poured through the doors, the noise sharply rising as the little brats exchanged inane chatter about their Christmases, and shouted to friends across the hall.

Snape ground his teeth in irritation, and picked up his fork, thinking of all the murderous things he could do with the innocent piece of cutlery. His expression apparently reflected his inner thoughts too well, as several students looked at him with wide eyed horror, before diving for their seats...one of them even screamed. Feeling a little bit better, Snape went back to keeping an eye on the Dreadful Duo...who seemed to be suddenly having difficulties again with overly friendly plates. One even leapt up, smacking Fred...or was it George... square in the face. Snape had to hastily smother his sniggers, as Dumbledore manfully waded through his welcoming speech, ignoring the distractions. He really needed to collar Miss Granger or even Mr Weasley-most-junior and ask them how they had worked this one; a week old and it was still going strong. As the feast got going to the delighted squeals of many of the hell-spawn, Dumbledore sent a reproving look down the table. "Really Severus," he murmured.

Snape scowled back, before stabbing his steak savagely; ruddy old codger ruining his fun. His angry muttering were broken by the change in tone of the student generated noise, from happy raucous chatter and clattering of cutlery on crockery, to hysterical shrieks and screams...and a zoo's worth of angry animal noises. Snape looked incredulously towards the Gryffindor table..._what in Merlin's name?_

The students of Gryffindor had been replaced by a multitude of furious animals, baying and barking and chattering, many still semi-clothed in their school robes. In among the varied creatures, sat a pair of Red Setters with identical doggy grins, tongues lolling out of their mouths, taking in the chaos around them with a great deal of glee.

Barely had they sat down, than Ron and Hermione found themselves fighting an intense wave of pain, which left them gasping for breath, bewildered and disoriented at their now radically altered view of the world.

Shaking himself, Ron looked around, his new black and white vision oddly stunted...but his sense of smell...he would ever after struggle to describe that first experience; the closest he would get would be that it was as if he was smelling in time and space for the very first time. Sure, he knew it was something he'd got from one of Hermione's stranger muggle books, but it was the closest he could get. Everything smelt weird, semi familiar odours, people he knew, Hermione next to him overlaid with something almost bird like, her robes shifting and she squawking indignantly as she freed herself form the encumbering fabric, the twins down the table, familiar dog scents screaming pack to his sensitive nose, and then further down the table a dark coloured ram with the beginnings of a magnificent pair of horns, bleating in outrage at the red-setter twins. Ron laughed in surprise; Percy was now literally the black sheep of the family.

And all this was layered, as scent replaced scent over time in a rich and intricate olfactory tapestry.

Raven Hermione freed herself form the confinement of her school robes, cawing in outrage at the predicament she found herself in, fluttering up to the edge of the table and glaring viciously at the cause of all the trouble; but before she could do anything, the very surprised Grizzly bear opposite lunged with extraordinary speed, snapping and growling its displeasure. Ron stared in surprise, tongue hanging out. Wasn't that Neville? It certainly smelt like it. Way to go, Nev!

His brothers, sensing the danger they were in, leapt over the table, the bear doing his best to follow. Hermione launched herself into the air with an enraged cackle, following closely behind. Ron shook himself and leapt after her barking furiously. _If you can't beat 'em, _he thought,_ you might as well join them_.

OOOOOO

The rest of the school looked on in stunned disbelief, as the juvenile Grizzly Bear seemed to gather its wits and lunge for the now canine menaces, who both darted over the table in a shower of cutlery, crockery and spilt food, before diving underneath the Hufflepuff table to squeals and shrieks of shock from the students, who then ran for safety as the bear tried to follow, knocking the bench over and cracking the long plank that formed its seat. The Hufflepuff table heaved momentarily, before the beast managed to crawl through and barrel towards the Ravenclaws, many of whom had drawn their wands, the Slytherins rising in anticipation of the cavalcade coming towards them, as many of the other animals that were Gryffindor house were even now racing over, under and round the table in an effort to get to the likely cause of their current situation.

Snape watched the unfolding events in fascination. Should he do anything?

He looked down the table towards the other staff, who were watching the unfolding events in thinly disguised horror, many beginning to rise from their seats intent on intervening before things got really out of hand. _No..._he thought, going back to his steak, ignoring the hippo wearing a tutu and ballet shoes as it cantered past him. If it got really bad he would assist, but he was confident in his esteemed colleagues' ability to cope with the odd rampaging animal.

OOOOOO

Sometime later, Snape sighed listlessly as he poked his steak; seeing Lupin wrestle with an angry and murderous penguin was amusing in its way, but it was only going to temporarily lift his mood, especially with that letter hanging over him.

It seemed that the DMLE were trying to be as thorough as possible with the highly explosive Crabbe case, and were pulling in for questioning anybody who had even the slightest acquaintance with the man, hence the letter.

It wasn't that Snape was reluctant to help the DMLE with their enquiries, it was just he was concerned. His own record wasn't exactly sparkling clean, and he knew Crabbe at a time when he was heavily mixed up in things no sane person should ever go near. A past he was very keen on leaving alone if at all possible.

He had done things...been involved in things he was not at all proud of. Some of it still gave him nightmares, even after a decade's distance...

...and then Dumbledore had cornered him at lunch to tell him that he would come and vouch for his good character to Madam Bones herself. He had expected that, the old man had previously done so on several other occasions. He could even say he'd expected the letter from Carrow that evening also agreeing to vouch for him. The man was, after all, and much to his continued shock, a sort of friend.

It was the letters this morning that had really left him off kilter. Dumbledore must have told Arthur Weasley of his "appointment", and Arthur in turn had told select members of his family. Dumped on his breakfast plate that very morning had been three, _three_, letters offering to give evidence of his upstanding character and all round decency in court if he ever needed it. Arthur and his eldest sons had obviously got together and plotted the protection of one of their own...

...which left Snape feeling as if he'd just received a bludger to the gut. He'd always been alone. His mother had been loving but ineffectual, and had increasingly over time retreated within herself, becoming little more than a shell. His father had been a weak man, a bully prone to bouts of drunkenness. His school days had been marked by a general lack of close friends, Lily being the exception, though he had had many acquaintances of varying qualities...and now here he was, Severus Snape, dungeon bat extraordinaire, all round anti-social person and miserable git, with a queue of people determined to...to stand by him in a time of difficulty, to, dare he say it, stand up and protect him. It was such an alien feeling, that he was truly, honestly having difficulties trying to understand it, work out how it could possibly have come to be.

So lost in his thoughts was Snape, that he never noticed when an exasperated Minerva stood in front of him shouting "Severus! Engage!" before giving up on him with an exasperated huff. It was only when Pomona dragged an unconscious student to the relative safety behind the Staff table that Snape started to take notice of his surroundings again. Staring at the injured student, Snape knew he could no longer sit this out, not with Poppy stuck on the other side of the scrum of brawling students, and since he was the closest one by with the most medical knowledge...sighing to himself, he abandoned his dinner and called for a House-elf to fetch his travelling potions kit. The small, wide-eyed creature stared at the mess of seething, shouting, screaming students in apprehension, clutching the sturdy leather bag to its thin chest.

"Don't worry about that lot," Snape gave the fighting brats a dark glare, "the Headmaster will soon sort them out." He smirked nastily at the still worried elf. "They'll wish they'd never got up this morning, after he's finished with them."

The House-elf nodded nervously, ears flapping, before popping way and leaving the Potions master to his task.

Sighing to himself, Snape popped open his bag and eyed the contents speculatively. At least he'd had the forethought to brew plenty of bruise balm, calming draught and skelegrow. He had a feeling they were all going to be in demand very shortly.

Pulling out his wand, he set to work casting the basic diagnostic charms he knew on the worryingly still girl.

OOOOOO

"ENOUGH!" The Headmaster's amplified voice was like a crack of thunder, echoing in the space of the hall, cutting through the noise of the battling students.

Everyone froze as if in a particularly warped game of charades.

"To your house tables NOW!" the command cracked through the air like a whip sending the students scurrying to their places, a quick bit of wand-work from a grim and glowering Professor Sprout mending and righting the Hufflepuff table.

Ron jumped painfully onto to the Gryffindor bench, ribs aching where he'd been kicked a second time. Looking towards the Headmaster standing in front of the High Table, he could understand all of his parents' stories of He-who-must-not-be-named being scared of the man. Gone was the slightly dotty, benevolent and friendly air the Headmaster normally carried; his blue eyes, now hard and cold, surveyed the cowering students, the air around him rippling as if from heat, as the magic poured off him. Albus Dumbledore was a powerful man it was highly unwise to cross.

"Absolutely disgraceful!" the Headmaster thundered, causing Ron to jerk out of his contemplation. "Never in all my years of teaching have I seen such a disgusting display. You should all be_ ashamed_ of yourselves!"

His chilly glare swept across the unusually quiet students. "We, all of us, have an incredible gift...to do magic...to use our will to shape and change the world around us. Unfortunately, some among us have decided to _abuse_ this gift." He narrowed his eyes, glaring fiercely at the student body before beginning to pace.

"Magic, wonderful and wondrous though it is, is _not_ a toy or a game. It can be unpredictable, produce strange results, have unforeseen consequences, many of which are _highly unpleasant, fatal_ even."

Pausing in his pacing, the Headmaster turned to his audience. "As we wield magic, so we also bear a great responsibility. Each and every one of us needs to think carefully of the possible repercussions of each and every piece of magic we compose."

He paused to allow his words to sink in. "And so, I have decided to give a school wide detention." He glared icily at the students. "Next Saturday, the entire student body, without exception, will attend a special detention here in the Great Hall."

The students were too shaken and upset to protest what would normally have appeared to many of them, to be rather drastic action.

"All of you," the Headmaster continued, "will write an essay on the importance of personal responsibility. It will be held under exam conditions, so there will be _no conferring_ and _no debate_."

He gave the students one last glare. "That is all. Those students who are able will now be escorted back to their dormitories."

And with that he turned his back on the collected students, too furious to look at them any longer.

OOOOOO

Snape was busily strapping up the probably broken wrist of a Hufflepuff third year, when Dumbledore came round the High Table taking in the sight of the makeshift infirmary that Snape and now Poppy had put together there. Looking every bit his age the Headmaster smiled warmly at Snape. "Thank you, Severus," he murmured before sinking into a nearby chair. "How goes it?"

Snape and Pomfrey exchanged looks.

"It's not quite as bad as it looks; there are only half a dozen or so who will need to stay overnight in the Infirmary, other than Miss Sharp." Pomfrey gestured towards the Ravenclaw who lay comatose on a transfigured cot, Snape's teaching robe draped over her. "If she doesn't wake up soon, we will have to start considering sending her to St Mungo's."

Poppy Pomfrey sighed heavily. "But then we haven't checked precisely what the terrible twins did to produce _that _yet." She scowled towards the Gryffindor table, surrounded as it was by a subdued menagerie of creatures.

A shout of horror came from across the hall, closely followed by loud and furious swearing in Gaelic.

"Those bloody idiots!" Professor Babbling roared her voice upset and furious. "What the _hell_ were they thinking?"

The Red Setters in question hunkered down in their seats, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, as Snape and Dumbledore strode past, intent on founding out precisely what had upset McGonagall _that_ much.

The bench had been tipped on its side revealing the underside of the oak plank of the seat. It was pale and rough in comparison to the seat, protected as it was from hundreds of years' worth of bottoms and school bags. But now it was adorned with a new addition, runic seals repeated over and over again, until they formed complex interlace that ran the length of the bench. Snape frowned, perplexed; runes had never really been his subject, but judging from the reactions around him these ones had garnered, this was not at all good. He glanced sideways as the Headmaster sucked in a breath sharply; not good at all.

"It's a wonder nobody died...or was at least horribly deformed," Babbling snarled, dragging a shaky hand through her hair.

"And that's the very least of it!" McGonagall growled. "There's a damn good reason why _that_ method of divining your animal form is no longer used for the animagus transformation," she whirled on the shaking Red Setters, "and _that's_ because there's a very real risk of people becoming permanently stuck in their animal forms from the shock of the transformation!"

"Oh you foolish, _foolish _boys," Dumbledore whispered, face crumpled in disappointment.

OOOOOO

Unable to sleep, Remus Lupin had decided to take a walk around the Castle to see if that would settle his shattered nerves. The quiet of the Castle in the wee hours of the morning was beginning to work its soothing magic, as he padded past snoozing portraits, and rode the stairs to the upper floors. He strolled past at least one suit of armour that was snoring, while admiring the clear moonless night through the many arched windows.

When he'd taken on this teaching post he'd wallowed in nostalgia, misty eyed about the familiar landscape of Hogwarts, quite happy to admit that for him his school days really had been the best years of his life. He had happily sat down and planned out lessons that he would have been excited by at that age, picked books that even the most study phobic Marauder would have pounced on with delight...and then he'd come to Hogwarts.

The previous Defence teacher, a temporary stand-in for Gilderoy Lockhart who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, had left extensive and detailed notes of the classes he had held, and what he expected of his successor. Lupin had read them in increasing horror. What had Dumbledore been thinking when he hired this...Allesandor Carrow, who frankly seemed to be a deranged lunatic of the highest order...but then he'd shaken himself, and dismissed it all as delusional nonsense that this Carrow person was spouting. It wouldn't be the first time that a Defence teacher was all wind and no substance, and so he had set to, without another thought to his predecessor.

In hindsight, he shouldn't have dismissed the Boggart incident as just initial teething troubles. The awful apparitions so many of his students had produced seemed too...ludicrous to have any basis in reality, particularly the armoured monstrosity, and so he had ignored them.

Just a month later, and he had been heartily cursing Carrow's name. Half his students were very vocal in complaining at the lack of bloodshed in his lessons, and were very clear they thought his classes were wimpy in the extreme. The other half fainted at the sight of anything more dangerous than a Flobberworm. And then there was Su Li, the quiet and shy third year Ravenclaw, who could, with the slightest provocation, be driven into a crazed frenzy. When he'd complained to Albus, the Headmaster had listened to his concerns and complaints with a solemn expression, and then offered him a cup of tea.

Not at all helpful.

Lupin sighed heavily to himself, the weight of four months of difficult teaching pressing down on his shoulders. He was definitely looking forward to the day in June when he handed his notice in. There was not a chance he was letting Dumbledore sweet-talk him into teaching a second year.

Lupin froze, blinking in surprise. Slowly he turned and stared at the portrait of a snoozing man swathed in a huge fur robe and felt cap. Nothing out of the ordinary there, but he could have sworn he'd just seen a huge and grizzled man with bones braided into his beard staring out at him. Shaking his head at the oddness, even by Hogwarts standards, he continued on his way.

Taking his time he strolled up a hidden spiral staircase, along a landing that overlooked a little used back staircase, and then through a secret passage he and the other Marauders had delighted in jumping out from at some of the more nervy Ravenclaw members. Lupin's face twisted in a bittersweet smile. The memories this place brought to him were so happy, but at the same time...it was like being stabbed through the heart.

He was just about to brush aside the tapestry at the other end, when his sensitive hearing, one of the very few perks of being a werewolf, caught the sound of arguing voices. They were obviously trying to keep as quiet as possible, but the hissing whispers and shushing sounds carried rather well. Fred and George Weasley had, it seemed, managed to sneak out of their dormitory and were up to something. Grinding his teeth in frustration at the stupidity of youth, Lupin stalked quickly towards the bickering pair, his expression grim.

"Mr and Mr Weasley," he said coldly, "I hope you have a good explanation for your night time wanderings."

The two Weasleys, jumping with shock, whirled to face their professor looks of guilt and desperation crossing their faces. They shifted nervously under his furious glare furtively trying to hide...a rather familiar piece of parchment behind their backs. Lupin's heart skipped a beat; no wonder the enterprising pair of ruffians had managed to get up to so much trouble.

"And I will have that." He held his hand out, daring the dreadful duo to try anything. The two boys eyed each other nervously, before reluctantly handing over the precious piece of dog-eared parchment.

"It's just a piece of scrap parchment, sir," one of the Twins said nervously, "nothing special, sir." He gulped reflexively at Lupin's withering glare.

Lupin carefully pocketed the precious reminder of happier carefree days, hands trembling, all the while glaring at the two miscreants.

"Precisely what are you trying to achieve here?" he asked coldly. "You are both so close to being expelled, that even a colour-changing charm could see you removed from the school...but here you are, oblivious to the warnings and admonishments of your teachers and parents. Do you just not care? Even after that talk with your father?"

The Twins stared at him utterly stricken, their faces pale and sickly.

"Sir...we...we weren't causing any trouble," one twin stuttered looking close to tears, "we...we needed to post a letter." The other twin nodded in agreement just as emotional as his brother, "we were only deciding whether we should use a school owl or...or borrow our brother's," he whispered, licking his lips nervously.

Lupin folded his arms, utterly unimpressed. "And this couldn't wait until the morning because...?" he snapped.

The Twins shuffled their feet, eyes down cast, embarrassed and shaken. "The Howler...need to apologise," one muttered, the other nodding frantically in agreement.

Lupin winced inwardly. The Howler that morning had to have been one of the most spectacular he'd witnessed. Delivered by a beautiful Snowy Owl, the red envelope had almost immediately burst into flames. The impossibly deep and gravelly voice had a threatening edge to it that had his inner wolf raising its hackles, and what it had ranted...well...it had started off with a long winded diatribe on the evils of the deliberate corruption of the sacred human form, before degenerating into a violent diatribe, in bad Latin, on what should happen to those who had committed such "heresy", before disintegrating into a eyebrow singing fire-ball. Lupin had fervently hoped that he would never meet the mystery ranter...ever.

"Professor Carrow was _so disappointed_ with us," one twin said, tears actually beginning to fall, "so we...we wanted to apologise to...to him as quickly as possible."

Lupin blanched. "_That_ was Allesandor Carrow?"

The Twins nodded.

Lupin stared at them for a moment; finally, he had a voice to put with the madness, and it was not at all comforting.

"Regardless, you are out of your dormitory past curfew," Lupin eyed the two boys severely, "and I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower, and that will be the end of this. You will just have to post your letter tomorrow morning."

The Twins' shoulders slumped, and they turned, shuffling back to Gryffindor House, the very picture of dejection.

OOOOOO

Sighing, Lupin plonked himself down at his desk, mug of Ovaltine in one hand. At least now he just felt tired, instead of stressed beyond words. The Weasley Twins, what a pair of trouble makers. He could just imagine James and Sirius getting on with them like a house on fire; panic, chaos, screaming people, ineffectual throwing of buckets of water, and massive property damage. Lupin winced at the vivid mental image; who was he kidding, at that age he'd have been joining in.

Sighing again, he pulled out the tattered piece of parchment, and reverently laid it out flat on his desk. A moment of uncertainty crossed his mind; was this what he thought it was? It was, after all, over a decade since he had last seen the object in question; a lot could have happened to it in that time...including its destruction. Well, there was only one way he was going to find out. Tentatively, he touched the tip of his wand to the parchment and murmured a phrase he never thought he would utter ever again. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

A network of fine lines began to appear around the tip of his wand, rapidly running across the surface of the parchment, criss-crossing and twining as they meshed together to make up one of the most comprehensive maps of the school ever made...and at the top was the legend,

_Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs_

_Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers_

_are proud to present_

_THE MARAUDER'S MAP*_

Lupin gulped back happy tears. Here it was...the map...the one they had laboured so hard over, had explored the Castle more thoroughly than any other student for...even tunnels leading out of the Castle...a magnificent achievement for four teenage boys, if he did say so himself. Contentedly sipping his Ovaltine, he pored over the familiar map, reminiscing over all the wonderful memories it brought forth, the secret passage they had used to escape when they had tried unsuccessfully to steal a pair of Professor McGonagall's knickers, the cupboard they'd managed to persuade Peeves to throw stink-bombs into, knowing that the seventh year Hufflepuff prefect was in residence with his current girlfriend, all the times they had sneaked to the kitchens in the wee hours of the night, the time the Headmaster had caught them planting water-bombs outside his office...he could go on and on...

And so he contented himself with watching the dots of the inhabitants of the Castle, which at this late hour were almost all stationary in dormitories and private quarters; even Snape seemed to be fast asleep. Lupin glared in annoyance at the stationary dot labelled Severus Snape cosily tucked up in the dungeons...the jammy git. Only the movements of those still up broke the quiet and stillness of the map; Dumbledore pacing his office, apparently having as many troubles sleeping as Lupin, several Ravenclaws in their common room, seventh years squeezing in extra NEWT study time no doubt, a lone Hufflepuff most likely labouring over some last minute homework, the ghosts drifting around on mysterious errands of their own, Mrs Norris patrolling the fourth floor in search of errant mice while Gregory Goyle crept carefully towards...Lupin leaned forward intently following the dot...ah, the kitchens. He smiled to himself; it looked like there was going to be a midnight feast in the Slytherin dorms tonight. If Snape found out, he'd be after their hides.

The quiet tranquillity the map radiated soothed and calmed Lupin as he watched the Castle slumber pondering the tiny little niggles that they'd always had with it. It would have been very useful if they could have managed to include the Castle's house-elves for instance; that would have kept them out of trouble a few times...or even all the familiars that roamed the place, there was a multitude of reasons why that would be useful. Maybe he should dig out his old notebooks and have another go at adding to the map. He just had that bit more experience and reading under his belt that he'd now be able to spot anything his younger self missed all those years ago.

A movement near the dungeons caught his eye and he idly read the tiny name, Peter Pet..._Peter Pettigrew!_

Lupin sprang from his seat in shock, nearly knocking over the remains of his Ovaltine. He stared at the tiny dot as it moved slowly and erratically, but always steadily, towards Gryffindor Tower and the third year dorms, where it soon joined a dot labelled...Lupin peered closer...Ronald Weasley.

Lupin sat down dazed, Peter Pettigrew _alive_. So what had happened then? The events of that awful night made less and less sense the more he thought about it...and the only other person who could shed any sought of light on the entire awful situation was Sirius Black...who was currently on the run form Azkaban...which was also making less and less sense.

So what did he do now?

Lupin slumped in his chair staring unseeing at the Marauder's Map, his thoughts scrambling like demented hamsters. He really didn't want to go to the Headmaster; it wasn't just that he was still angry with the man over the whole Carrow situation, but...what if the map had developed some sort of glitch...what if this just turned out to be a wild goose chase? But on the other hand the map could be working just fine, and if it was...well, he couldn't just leave this alone, it was just too big. But he definitely needed to tell someone on the permanent staff, otherwise it could look rather strange and not in a good way if he, a grown man, crept around a school full of children, looking furtive.

But who would be happy to conspire with him? Most of the staff would want Dumbledore involved straight away; Minerva and Filius, for instance, definitely would, so they were out. The others, he either didn't know very well, or he didn't really get on with them so...but...what about Snape? They didn't get on, but the man loved a good mystery, was also trusted implicitly by Dumbledore, and was also more than capable of keeping things to himself, or he certainly had been when they were at school together. It was long shot, but potentially worth it, even if Snape had taken to giving him creepy grins whenever their paths crossed in the corridors.

He was going to have to do a considerable amount of grovelling, but this was far too important to save his pride over.

So that was it, tomorrow morning he would go and talk to Snape.

OOOOOO

It was a grey and overcast morning, the low clouds promising drizzle that would go on for days. Thought the weather wasn't cold, the miserable damp which clung and penetrated and let the cold into your very bones caused everybody to huddle down inside their winter cloaks and walk that bit faster. Even the birds were huddling down in nooks and crannies, looking fed-up and miserable.

In contrast, Dumbledore was feeling quite cheerful and optimistic this morning, as he walked down Diagon Alley, humming softly to himself. It was, after all, another month closer to spring and nicer weather (maybe), some routine financial business had turned into a wonderful excuse for a trip to Diagon Alley, and just that morning he'd bumped into a young and rather guilty looking Grizzly Bear on his way out of the Castle. It was so nice to see something good come out of that awful mess at the start of the term, though he did wish that Mr Longbottom had gone to Minerva for assistance with his animagus transformation.

It always cheered Dumbledore seeing people going about their daily business, (best watched from a cafe with a nice cup of tea and a cake in his opinion) as he walked along, smiling and nodding in greeting to passing acquaintances, occasionally stopping to have a chat. It was just as he was approaching Gringotts that he saw the first signs of something strange. A crowd, large by Diagon Alley standards, had gathered in the open space before the bank. Holding banners and placards, and wearing t-shirts and even robes proclaiming "Free the Azkaban Eight!", the protest was hard to miss. Dumbledore recognised several recent graduates, but there were older ex-students and even some families, one dad with his little girl on his shoulder enthusiastically waving a no-heat sparkler. The crowds' unifying feature was its generally down-at-heel appearance, the slight shabbiness of its members, the glint of quiet desperation in their eyes.

The currently cheerful crowd was giving a spirited but amateurish rendition of a new song by the Rockin' Rogues; the chorus "set the innocent free" sung particularly loudly.

Dumbledore sighed heavily, some of his good cheer evaporating as he read the placards. "Muggleborns are magical too!", "Stop the Abuse", and "Rights for Muggleborns Now" some of them read. Dumbledore agreed whole heartedly with their sentiments, and he did what he could from within the system, but he was fighting centuries of tradition and bigotry, and the actions of those like Tom Riddle and Augustus Crabbe had not helped matters. Though things were getting interesting, and dangerous, with Carrow on the scene breathing down peoples' necks and looming menacingly all over the place.

Now if only people could be a little more patient, he was certain the next decade was going to see many exciting opportunities open up for muggleborns. But most people only seemed to think in the short-term. Dumbledore sighed heavily to himself; they never quite seemed to grasp the larger picture.

OOOOOO

Timothy and Wulfric carefully kept a wary eye on the large cardboard box, as it very slowly jittered across the office floor, propelled by the frantic escape attempts of its occupants.

Carrow had been avoiding the topic of the box for the last hour, as he carefully went through the plans for the upcoming Yugoslavia Mission, resulting in a very unsettling briefing for the two men.

Timothy glared at his short-hand pad, trying hard to ignore the shuddering box. "That's a lot of resources that we'll be pouring into this," he said, frowning with concern. "Even the Coven are going to be involved in their entirety, making fifteen of us all together...three teams of five," he thought aloud, "...so who's going to babysit Artemis?"

Carrow waved a hand dismissively. "I've already made arrangements," he said, ruffling the lady in question's ears, trying to distract her from the shivering box. "As for our latest...errand, the location given is a semi-ruined castle, but I understand that part of Terra harbours a number of extensive cave systems. I have a feeling we're going to end up in one."

The large man shifted in his chair, trying to get himself more comfortable; space marines were not designed for sitting down for any length of time, one of the very few downsides in Carrow's opinion.

"The last time we cleansed a cave system, we were part of a large team numbering nearly fifty, if I remember correctly, and our target was well known and at least documented. There were limited access points and the tunnels themselves only extended so far." He gazed up at the picture of Brother Chaplin Tiberius as his skin was yet again slowly peeled off by shadowy figures.

"This time we will be on our own," he addressed the two men, "on unknown ground against unknown odds. I would prefer to be prepared, which is why some of the golems are coming with us...and also..." he turned to the now jolting box, "I've been working on a little something to assist with our communication problem." And with that, he flipped open the box.

The contents shot out like a rocket, flying round the room, chittering madly as they expressed their objections to their confinement. Faulks half-rose out of his seat, wand instinctively drawn, but Artemis got there first, leaping into the air and managing to grab onto one of the flying objects, her teeth grating over its surface with a truly eye-watering sound.

Faulks stared in disbelief as the flying object was forced down several feet by Artemis's considerable weight, but still managed to keep moving, dragging her along with it.

"New toys for Artemis?" Wulfric cheerfully asked.

Carrow huffed in annoyance. "No, they're the closest approximation to a servo-skull I've been able to make."

Faulks eyed the flying crania in fascinated horror. They were still very obviously skulls, but in place of lower jaws, they had a mess of clockwork, brass armatures, flexes and other things he couldn't even fathom the use of, though several of the flying skulls seemed to be sporting jaunty rolls of paper and quill wielding armatures.

The general appearance was a particularly revolting cross between a squid's tentacles and a spider's mandibles. Timothy closed his eyes, shuddering slightly. He had a horrible suspicion there were going to be a lot of these..._servo-skulls_ in his future.

"I've not been able to test them as thoroughly as I'd have liked," Carrow frowned slightly, "but they should be able to send and receive messages, and a number are equipped to make visual recordings, which will be useful for our little errand." He eyed his handiwork speculatively as they meandered round the ceiling, well out of Artemis's reach. "Of course, as we field test them, I'll be able to improve and upgrade them..."

"Wonderful," Timothy said sarcastically, "and are you planning on putting these..._delightful_ objects into production?"

Timothy could just imagine the reaction of the now rather hysterical R&D department of the rechristened Aquila Industries. After only a day to get settled with their new building and staff, Carrow had gone ahead and revealed the existence of magic, before inundating his stunned employees with highly detailed demands, plans and drawings for various projects. These ranged from energy-weapons technology to the evil twin of the Space Shuttle. To say the response had not been positive was putting it mildly; flying cranial automata with limited AI would be just the icing on the cake.

Carrow pondered the question for a moment. "No...not yet anyway. I think it best to keep these to ourselves for the time being. Now..."

Only to be interrupted by a knock on the door.

Timothy went to open it, wand held discretely by his side, just in case. Audrey the typing pool supervisor stood nervously on the other side.

"I'm sorry to disturb you gentlemen, but this just arrived." She held out a flying memo. "It's a code red."

Timothy thanked her with a small smile, before closing the door, only to find Carrow standing almost directly behind him, eyeing the piece of folded paper with much interest. Hiding his shock and annoyance behind his carefully controlled mask, Timothy handed the memo over.

Large hands delicately unfolded the paper, and as he read its contents Carrow began to smile, a cruel predatory grin full of teeth.

"Gentlemen, Diagon Alley is in major uproar. It appears that events are starting to avalanche out of the Ministry's control; time we took advantage."

OOOOOO

The roar of noise could be heard quite clearly in the foyer of Gringotts, and it sounded angry. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose in surprise; was the crowd still there? He'd been several hours meeting various account managers on behalf of Hogwarts, and surely by now such a gathering would have broken up and gone home, particularly with the encouragement of the Aurors.

Armed teams of goblins were making their way to the main doors as Dumbledore approached.

"We're sealing the exit," a nearby Goblin snapped at him, "in or out, make your mind up."

Dumbledore nodded politely to the creature, and stepped through into Diagon Alley, only to be brought up short by what he saw, the doors of the bank shutting behind him with a very ominous thud. The friendly cheerful protest had disappeared, its ranks greatly swollen, until there was close on a couple of hundred people crushed tightly into the confines of Diagon Alley...and these people were angry...very angry.

"WHAT DO WE WANT?" the crowd roared

"RIGHTS!" came the bellowed reply.

"WHEN DO WE WANT THEM?"

"NOW!"

Dumbledore's good mood evaporated completely. He could understand their anger, but surely there must be more effective ways of expressing their displeasure than this. So what did he do? He was sure Hogwarts was safe and sound in Minerva's capable hands for the rest of the day...but should he stay here and try and help calm the crowd, or did he go to the Ministry and help there?

The Aurors were appearing in ever increasing numbers, and though he doubted they'd ever had to deal with this large a crowd of disgruntled people before, he knew they regularly and effectively broke up brawls in the Knockturn Alley area, and that must count for something, mustn't it? The Ministry on the other hand...Cornelius, never very good in stressful situations, was bound to start panicking if this situation went south, and when Cornelius panicked that was when he tended to do things of almost mind boggling stupidity.

In a delicate situation like this the wrong move could potentially turn into a catastrophe of epic proportions. And there was always Carrow to consider too, a particularly annoying part of his mind whispered. Dumbledore frowned in worry; Carrow was in his odd way rather honourable and moral...to a point. It was just the man was so unpredictable. Could he risk that Carrow would do the right thing?

He didn't like it but he had to go. Heart heavy, Dumbledore started to make his way to the nearest apparition point, his progress slow through the abnormally large crowd.

It was as he just got past Madam Malkin's that all hell broke loose. The angry chanting became discordant, joined by screams and shouts, indecipherable at this distance. Dumbledore turned in alarm, peering over the heads of the milling crowd. To his horror, he saw the distinctive flash of spell-casting.

Looking around he saw families, some with very young children, still trying to go about their business, a young man with a crup on a lead looking back towards Gringotts expression nervous, wary, a group of people faces masked with neckerchiefs, their expressions grim, and a very bundled up individual whose face was completely obscured by a deep hood, possibly a vampire venturing out into Diagon on this dark and overcast winter day.

To hell with Fudge! Stuff the blasted man in a cardboard box, and float him down the nearest river! Dumbledore pulled out his wand, heart and mind lighter. Even if Fudge did mess things up at the Ministry, even if Carrow ran amok, he, Albus Dumbledore was going to do the right thing. Filled with resolve, he made his way towards the first people with children he spied, determined to get them out of the alley before anything awful could happen.

OOOOOO

Swallowing dryly, Minister Fudge furtively looked around his office, trying not to betray just how nervous he truly was. He had a feeling he didn't pull it off very well. Oh, how he wished poor dear Lucius hadn't died in such a tragic way, and so young too. How he could have done with his level headedness and good advice just now; the man's generosity was just the gilding on the cake.

And now the rest of the old crowd had disappeared too, either dead or just simply vanished, and no matter how much he ranted at Bones, she never seemed to put quite as much effort into catching the murdering scum who had perpetrated such heinous crimes as he really expected...and Crabbe. Augustus Crabbe was such a family man who had doted on his little boy. He couldn't quite bring himself to believe that somebody he'd know so closely, for so long, could have committed such acts, regardless of the evidence. He really didn't want to think about it.

And now here he was stuck in his office, with two elderly friends of his father he'd know for donkeys years, who had a tendency to forget that he wasn't eight anymore, his undersecretary who seemed very distracted and wasn't being any help at all...and Allesandor Carrow...and his pet tiger...and Carrow's new revolting flying whatever-they-were.

As long as they stayed far away from him Fudge would be content.

But he so longed for Lucius's advice. He'd know what to do in a situation like this, with a horde of angry muggleborns tearing up Diagon Alley like a pack of wild animals...and blast Dumbledore...he'd tried to find the man, but he was off somewhere on school business. Professor McGonagall had been distinctly unhelpful.

He was now stuck with completely relying for advice and assistance from his father's old friends...and Carrow. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. Why, oh why did Lucius have to pass away like that?

"Minister," Delores Umbridge's sickly twittering cut through Fudge's introspection, "I really must get back to my desk; I've got so much paperwork to do."

Fudge snapped back to reality at the horrible realisation that the one person who he had hoped would form a good solid shield between him and Carrow, particularly if he hunkered down a bit, was rapidly heading towards the door.

"Delores, I'm sure it can wait." He tried to keep the pleading tone in his voice to a minimum; "I'll need you to...erm, take notes, erm...minutes...for our meeting."

But it was to no avail, as Delores hastily twittered more excuses and whirled out of the office, her robes flapping around her. Fudge winced. For some reason, Delores had started wearing variations on a particularly nasty shade of bile green; it was all rather odd for such a staunchly _pink_ lady, but no matter.

The door shut with a thud which seemingly echoed around the room. Fudge tried to smile reassuringly at the remaining occupants of his office, though he had a feeling it feel rather flat. His father's old friends looked at him with thinly veiled disappointment, causing him to shift uncomfortably, clearing his suddenly dry throat...but Carrow...Carrow was sitting there, delicately stroking that blasted tiger, staring at him with inhuman intensity, his green eyes almost glowing in the gloom of the office, his smile like that of a shark in a fish farm.

A bead of cold sweat made its way down Fudge's spine. This was going to be a very long meeting, he just knew it.

OOOOOO

*_quoted from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling, page 144. (In my 1__st__ edition hard-back any way.) _


End file.
